


Dream of Life

by pl2363



Series: Dream of Life- universe [1]
Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers AU - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Slavery, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pl2363/pseuds/pl2363
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Decepticons have won the war and the remaining Autobots are sold off as slaves. This is Perceptor's fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrapped in Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by Kookaburra’s ‘Stockholm’ series (with a nod to her fic) and possibly influenced by everything Hellkitty has written for Perceptor/Drift xD.
> 
> Title borrowed from "Breath of Life" by Florence + the Machine, which is the main inspirational song for this fic.
> 
> "A little of vision of the start and the end  
> But all the choirs in my head sang ‘no’," … 'Breath of Life' by Florence + the Machine
> 
> Also, I do not have a beta for grammar. I apologize for comma abuse.

The stale smell of degraded mech fluid and rancid energon filled the air of the confined space Perceptor found himself in. One dim light in the center of the high ceiling exposed the marred and stained condition of the walls around him. The room was so small he lacked enough space to stretch out on the floor to recharge.  He sat propped up against one of the dirty walls, with nothing more than his thoughts to occupy his mind. Drifting in and out of a light recharge, he was never fully rested and never fully awake.

They had lost the war. They had lost their only true hope, their Prime. There was nothing left. Some Autobots managed to flee the planet, but Perceptor had foolishly stayed. Fought until the bitter end, despite being a scientist not a warrior. He had been rounded up and sent to Swindle’s compound. Locked in this dark, dank room, waiting… for what? He had no idea.

He stared at his dented and dingy plating. It had been several orns since he’d been locked away. Some of his battle wounds had crudely healed over. Lack of proper fueling and medical care made his auto-repaired wounds look jagged and discolored. He fingered a thick scar on his turquoise thigh. A place he’d been shot to keep him from escaping once the Decepticon forces breeched the battle line after Optimus had been killed.

His spark ached with heavy weight of loss. Optimus was dead. The matrix in Megatron's possession. Many captured and locked away like himself, many more dead. Perceptor had given up crying within the first orn of his confinement. It only strained his systems further. Instead, he'd replay old memory files, seeking some form of escapism.

An unexpected, loud creak of metal made him jump. He glanced at the wall with the door, watching it crack open. The metal hinges groaned as they were forced to move. On the other side, Swindle stood with one of his minions.

“On your feet!” Swindle yelled at Perceptor.

Too weakened to stand, he simply stared back at him. A part of him hoped his defiance might earn him a shot to the head and an end to his misery. He’d already tried to starve his systems into shutdown, but learned that led to being knocked unconscious and having his fuel tank filled for him.

The mech at Swindle’s side entered the cell, hauling Perceptor’s battered frame up to stand and holding his arm so he wouldn’t collapse.

Swindle looked him over, his gaze moving from helm to pede and back up. “He’ll do. Get him cleaned up.”

“On it,” the minion replied.

With that, Swindle disappeared.

Perceptor was pulled out of the cell and staggered into the brightly lit hallway. He squinted his optics to limit the sudden flood of light inundating his visual cortex. He could make out shapes of more mechs several meters away, but he wasn’t sure who they were.

The minion tugged at him, forcing him to move. Every joint in his body protested, grinding and creaking. All that time spent stuck in a seated position in the cell had made him extremely stiff.

“Come on!” The minion jerked Perceptor forward. He was unable to maintain his balance and tumbled, landing hard on his knees. His arm remained in the minion’s grip, twisted at an odd angle. It hurt, but Perceptor simply didn’t care.

“Get up!” the minion roared.

“Looks like he’s been in the cell too long. Drug him, and let’s get these guys cleaned up,” a disembodied voice said.

Drug? Perceptor turned his head to watch the minion pull a medical injector from his subspace pocket. Leaning forward, he forced the end into one of the energon lines along his neck. Almost instantly, a heated feeling went rushing through Perceptor’s lines. It tickled and burned at the same time. After only a moment, reality took on a much less severe quality. It blurred and softened. His sense of pain was completely blotted out. The minion hauled him back to his feet again, and this time he felt his limbs move smoothly. It confused him how he was suddenly able to walk, but as the drug coursed through his system his vague worries floated away.

The world seemed almost liquid around him. He walked along behind the other mech in a daze. Reaching an open doorway, Perceptor was shoved into a glass walled space. He stared down at his reflection in the shiny metallic floor. It was like he was looking at someone else. He felt badly for the dingy, beat up-looking mech staring back at him.

“Stay still!” the minion ordered.

Perceptor lifted his gaze up, watching the mech apparently in charge of him walk over with a hose in one hand and bottle of solvent in the other. The solvent was squirted all over his frame, and then a harsh spray of liquid water pelted him, washing away the solvent and grime. The water felt cool against his warmed plating. Once he was washed off, the minion quickly patted him down with a drying cloth.

Frowning, the minion looked Perceptor over. “You’re a mess. I don’t know how Swindle expects to get much of anything for you.”

Much of anything? The words rattled around in his mind, as he tried to make sense of the comment.

“Let’s get that thing off your shoulder,” the minon said as he picked up a sharp curved tool from a table near the glassy room’s entrance.

Remove what? Thanks to that drug he’d been given, Perceptor couldn’t think clearly enough to make any real sense of what was happening. A feeling of fear tried to surface, but it felt distant and unreal.

The minon walked over, clamped his hand over Perceptor’s microscope shoulder mount, and then used the sharp curved tool to wrench on it. Perceptor may have been drugged enough to not feel general pain or even be able to think clearly, but it wasn’t enough to blot out the pain of having an essential part of his body removed. The tool severed the connection mounts for his microscope and then twisted it free of Perceptor’s frame. Pain seared through his whole body at the sudden loss and he cried out, jerking away and dropping to the floor in a limp pile. His entire frame shivered uncontrollably as his systems were sent into disarray. Moaning and writhing on the wet floor, Perceptor wished for death to finally come take him away. _Primus, please have mercy on me..._ he thought. _Kill me now..._

“What the frag is wrong with you?” the minion asked.

Perceptor curled in on himself, his body convulsing as his systems started to go into shock.

“You idiot! That wasn’t a weapon! We’re only supposed to remove things that could be used as weapons!” shouted a voice.

“It looked like one! How was I supposed to know?”

Unknown hands touched Perceptor, and he offlined his optics, not wanting to see anything more. Not wanting to live another moment.

“You’re a moron! If this mech dies cause of you, Swindle’s going to put _you_ on the auction block!”

Perceptor felt a syringe press to his neck and the world went black.

…

Perceptor onlined with a start, sharply gasping as he lit his optics. Laid out on a berth, the pain and shock from the amputation were gone, replaced by a dull aching sensation. His gaze was immediately drawn to what looked like a medic standing over him. Glancing to the side, he saw Swindle and the minion that had removed his microscope, staring at him.

“So, you _didn’t_ kill him,” Swindle said.

“Sorry, boss. I didn’t know it wasn’t a weapon,” the minon said.

“I shut down the main relay. He’ll be fine,” the medic said as he wiped his stained hands on a cloth. “I also re-lubed his joints. They were degraded from non-use.”

“I pulled three from storage for this evening’s auction, you think this one can still go out?” Swindle asked.

The medic nodded.

Swindle gave the minion a sharp look. “Next time you damage my merchandise, you will be put up on the block. Got it?”

He minion fervently nodded.

“Hurry up and finish the detailing, then bring him to the staging area,” Swindle ordered.

Once again, Perceptor was hauled to his feet by the minion. He staggered along as he was walked out of the medical area and down a series of hallways. The world felt hazy and out of focus, but not surreal like it had before. He rolled his shoulder, expecting to feel the weight of his microscope. Instead, he felt a dull ache. He'd probably never be able to transform again. Sadness ached deep within his spark at his bodily loss.

They arrived at a small, long room. The seating and tables reminded him of the golden age detail parlors where mechs would go to have their plating shined and painted with shapes or small mods added to their frames.

He was pushed into one of the seats, and the minion prepared items on a table. He pulled out two types of shining wax and several cloths. He then squeezed some of the liquid wax into a cloth and began to work it over Perceptor’s frame, shining his battered plating.

Slowly, his thoughts began to weave back together as the cocktail of drugs in his systems began to breakdown further. He was being cleaned despite all the dents and scaring over his frame. Swindle referred to him as merchandise and threatened to auction this mech now tending to him. As his disjointed thoughts began to organize themselves, he finally realized: _he was about to be sold like some sparkless drone_.

He dimmed his optics as a sense of total despair took over. To be a prisoner of war was one thing, but to be a commodity was a whole other. To become some Decepticon’s pet was indeed a fate far worse than death. He might have cried if he’d any shred of hope left in him. Instead, he went numb.

He watched in a detached, distant manner as the minion continued to wax him. His red colored plating was brought to a shine. The minion took special care around his hips and interface array cover, coating the black plating with a thick glossy layer of wax. His touching was completely business-like as he worked.

“You are so plain looking. I have no idea who’ll want you,” the minon said, frowning as he began waxing Perceptor’s leg plating. “And there’s already another red one going out with you.” The minion sat back on his heels, then motioned for Perceptor to stand. “Get up. I gotta do your backside.”

Perceptor complied, shakily standing and turning around. The minion worked over the backs of his legs first, then he stood up and shoved Perceptor. “Grab the arm rests and lean forward.” 

Leaning forward, Perceptor did as directed. The minon’s hands then roamed over his aft slowly. It was not the business like manner the minion had used when attending his front. A shiver ran through Perceptor at the unwanted, suggestive touches.

“You aren’t too bad from behind. Nice aft and long legs. The turquoise coloring on your thighs makes you stand out. You’re helm is boring, though. Autobots are so utilitarian,” The minion said with a snort. He then pulled Perceptor by his arm. “Stand back up.”

Perceptor offlined his optics, standing still as the minion finished waxing him. His days as a scientist were long over now. He was about to be sold off and by the sounds of it be forced into becoming someone's pleasure mech. His only chance to escape this horrible fate will be to offline himself first chance he got.

“And the final touch... Turn around.”

As Perceptor turned, the minion reached up and snapped a collar in place around his neck. It had a ring on the front, which the minion attached a lead to. “All right, let’s get you to the staging room.” The minion tugged on Perceptor with the lead, pulling him to follow. Just when he was sure things couldn’t get worse…

They walked through more corridors, eventually arriving at to a large door. The minion waved his palm over the entry pad, and it opened, revealing a large brightly lit room. He readjusted his optics as they proceeded inside. Swindle was already there along with two more minions and two of Perceptor’s Autobot comrades: Ironhide and Jazz.

Perceptor couldn’t help staring at his two comrades.

Ironhide’s plating had been shined, too. His old war scars merged with new ones and cross-crossed his entire frame. He wavered on his feet, and his minion leaned into him in order to keep him propped up. He must have been under the influence of some very potent drugs. His gaze was distant and unfixed.

Jazz stood perfectly still. His body also bore scars and his visor was cracked along one side. He seemed in fair condition, all things considered, though. 

The minon in charge of Perceptor announced their arrival. “I’ve got the last one.”

Swindle turned and smiled. “He looks great! You saved your aft _this_ time.” Swindle then clapped his hands together. “All right! Let’s make some credits. Show off the best qualities of your merchandise up there. Remember that--”

Suddenly, Jazz moved.

In a fluid motion, he spun around high kicking Swindle in the side, sending him flying. Jazz then moved with precise control, grabbing the minon that was in charge of him by the neck, and positioning him as a shield.

Perceptor tensed. Should he try and help? Should he fight, too? He glanced at Ironhide. The large red warrior had a glazed over expression on his face, seemingly unconcerned for Jazz or anything that was happening around him.

“He’s not properly drugged!” Swindle shouted.

“I hope ya die an acid pit, you fragger!” Jazz shouted. The mech in his grip struggled, but couldn’t free himself.

Swindle got to his feet. “Oh, please. Where are you going to go? My compound is totally secure. There is no escape. No one to save you.”

Perceptor balled his hands into fists, he may not be a warrior but with the drugs in his systems wearing off, he felt his free will returning to him. He grabbed the lead and jerked it free of his minon’s hold, and then lunged forward, taking a swing at Swindle. He was a clumsy fighter to begin with and still feeling woozy from earlier didn't help his aim any, either. He missed his target and stumbled.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” Swindle grabbed Perceptor by one of the severed shoulder mounts and twisted. Perceptor cried out, dropping to his knees, his whole frame shaking from the pain. “Some of the relays still work, it seems. Good thing. You! Drug your merchandise!” Swindle said, pointing.

“I’m sorry,” Perceptor said in a weak and pained voice. It was directed at Jazz, but he was sorry for so much more than being impotent to help his comrade. He was sorry he was alive. He was sorry he was weak. That’s when he felt his lead jerk him upright. A syringe of more drugs sunk into his neck’s fuel line. Instantly, the world became hazy again.

“And you!” Swindle moved toward Jazz and his captive. “That’s quite enough. I knew you were going to be trouble, which is why I have them install inhibitors in all the collars.” He pulled a small controller from subspace, and pressed a button. Jazz jerked back, letting go of the mech in his grip and digging his fingers into the collar while making gaging sounds. “You! Get your sorry aft up and drug him.”

Jazz's minion scrambled to his feet and pulled a syringe from subspace, plunging into Jazz’s neck above the collar.

Perceptor watched helplessly, his processor swimming in a thick fog. The lead connected to his collar was pulled hard, forcing him to stand.

“All right. No more interruptions. You idiots need to make sure to keep your merchandise drugged, like this guy here,” Swindle said patting Ironhide’s chest. “Okay. Let’s go make some credits!”

They were led out into a darkened room. Along one side was a small well-lit stage. Perceptor staggered along behind the minion handling him to the stage platform. Three circles marked where they should stand. He stared down at his feet and the circular shape, feeling dizzy from the drugs. Still, he was a little grateful that at least his shoulder had stopped painfully throbbing.

“Tonight, I have three Autobots up for auction!” Swindle said.

Glancing up, Perceptor groggily realized there was a crowd of Decepticons in front of the stage platform, their red and yellow sets of optics shining in the darkened space.

“All payments must be made the moment the bidding ends. If your credits are no good, then we will re-auction. Raise your numbered marker to make a bid. The only bids I’ll take will be with markers. No hands, no nods, and no shouting allowed! If you want to place a verbal bid along with your raised marker, you may do so! We clear on the ground rules?” Swindle asked the crowd.

A murmured agreeable set of sounds was his response.

“Then let’s get started!” Swindle turned to face Jazz. “Here we have a medium sized mech. Mixed Praxian and Iacon traits. He’s very feisty, so be sure you are up to the challenge of having such a mech in your home. He will require breaking!” Perceptor glanced at Jazz. His visor was barely lit and he stood with his head bowed. “Let’s start the bidding at 300 credits! Who will get us started at 300?”

A marker flashed in the darkened room.

“We have 300 from the mech in red. Do I see 400? …400 anyone?” Swindle said.

Another flash of a marker.

“400! 400 to our illustrious head of communications, Soundwave! Do I see 500? I see 500 in the back there! 500 to the mech in black! Do I hear 600?”

“1,000,” Soundwave droned as he raised his marker.

A hush rippled over the crowd. Even Swindle looked surprised for a moment. Then he smirked. “1,000 to our illustrious communications officer! Anyone wish to challenge with 1,100?”

Silence.

“1,000, going once! … Twice… Sold to Soundwave!” Swindle hopped off the platform, walking down to meet Soundwave in the crowd to take his credits. After a long moment, Swindle lifted up his datapad. “Credits are processed. Please claim your purchase from the stage!”

Soundwave got to his feet and walked up, taking Jazz’s lead from the minon and pulling him off the platform.

“All right, let’s keep things rolling! Next up another medium sized mech.” Swindle hopped back onto the stage platform, standing next to Perceptor. “He maybe somewhat plain in design, but he's very... uh... utilitarian! His alt mode is not a vehicle. This means he’ll be easy keep in line.”

Perceptor watched Swindle in a detached haze. Shouldn’t he care he was about to be sold to a Decepticon? Whether it was the drugs or his general frayed mind, he frowned as he realized he couldn't bring himself care about anything right now.

“So let’s start the biding at 300 as well. Do I see 300?” Swindle asked the crowd. “300 to my fellow Combaticon up front here! Do I see 400? 400 anyone? Ah, 400 to the mech I can’t quite make out in back there.”

The mech in front twisted in his seat, trying to see who’d bid against him. He then looked back at Swindle, lifting his marker. “500!”

“Oooo! Okay, 500 my fellow Combaticon, Onslaught! Do I see 600? … 600 to the mech in back!” Swindle looked thrilled.

The Combaticon in front stood up. “Who’s bidding against me?”

“No shouting, that’s the rules, Onslaught! Do you wish to place a higher bid?” Swindle asked.

Onslaught lifted his marker. “1,000.”

“2,000,” the mech in back responded.

“Whoa! Okay! 2,000 to the mysterious mech in the back. Why not come forward so I can get a good look at you?” Swindle asked with a huge grin.

The mech in back made his way forward.

“Deadlock,” Onslaught said with a deep frown. “Thought you didn’t want one. Why are you bidding against me?”

“Changed my mind,” Deadlock replied as he walked up to stand beside Onslaught.

“Well, we have Deadlock’s 2,000 bid still standing. Does anyone wish to put in 2,100?” Swindle asked.

Onslaught and Deadlock exchanged angry looks.

“2,000 going once… going twice…” Swindle paused, his gaze shifting to Onslaught. The large mech shook his head and dropped to sit in his seat. “Sold! 2,000 credits to Deadlock.” Swindle hopped off the platform, and took the winner’s credit. “All set. Take your item from the stage.”

Deadlock stepped forward, and Perceptor’s lead was handed off. Perceptor stepped down, tripping and almost falling off the short step. Deadlock grabbed him by his arm, to keep him steady.

“Next up! We have a large sized mech…” Swindle’s voice grew distant as the mech that now owned Perceptor walked him out of the auctioning room.

They entered a lobby area, and Deadlock turned to look at Perceptor. His red optics raked over his battered but waxed frame. His gaze paused at Perceptor’s shoulder, but he said nothing about the severed mounts.

"Sir! Sir! I almost forgot to give you the care pack," the minion that had been Perceptor’s handler shouted as he ran up.

Deadlock narrowed his optics. "Care pack? What the frag is that?"

"Additives for his energon," the minion said, handing off a small clear container of vials. “First set is free. If you like the results, Swindle has them available at very affordable prices and delivery is free.”

Deadlock grunted as he took the container.

"Thanks, and tell your friends about Swindle's auctions!"

Deadlock leered at mech, then turned and pulled Perceptor by the lead. “Let’s go.”

…

Their walk to Deadlock’s home from the compound took Perceptor through the various parts of the rebuilt city. He took it all in with the optics of an outsider. Poorer areas with unsavory mechs gave way to tall opulent-looking buildings and a very busy merchant district. At the edge of that area sat a building that was very plain by comparison, but also large. It turned out to be the apartment complex Deadlock lived in.

They took the lift up, and when it stopped Deadlock stepped out, loosely holding Perceptor's lead. For a brief moment, Perceptor considered pulling free. But that thought died in a haze of numbness and the realization that he had absolutely nowhere to go. So he obediently followed in his new master down the corridor. At the last doorway, Deadlock waved his hand over the lock, opening the door, and they both went inside.

Perceptor glanced around the smallish apartment, noting a kitchenette area with an energon dispenser and a few different bottles of high grade lined up next to it. The living area had two reclining chairs; one much nicer than the other and a small coffee table covered in dirtied energon glasses. The chairs faced a huge vid screen mounted to the wall. His gaze then wandered to a window that ran from ceiling to floor, giving a fairly nice view of the Cybertron and the merchant area a few floors below.

Deadlock reached for Perceptor and unsnapped the lead from his collar. Perceptor's wandering gaze focused on the mech now standing in front of him. Deadlock’s ruby red optics studied his face for a long, uncomfortable moment.

"Hm. Drugged." Deadlock pulled the clear container with vials from his subspace pocket. He smirked as he held it up and examined it. "Additives my aft. Just more drugs." He shifted his gaze to Perceptor. "This stuff will mess you up bad."

Perceptor remained mute, his gaze moving between his new master and the container.

"My guess is you're already messed up bad." Deadlock set the container down on the nearby table and then tossed the lead next to it. "You need to recharge and let that slag work itself out of your systems. Follow me."

Perceptor did as he was directed, trailing Deadlock down the small hallway to the berthroom. It was a small room that looked even smaller with the large sized berth sitting in it.

"I only have the one berth, so we're goin' to have to share." Deadlock then pointed to an open doorway opposite of the berth. "Washrack's in there." Deadlock then motioned to the berth. "Get some rest. You look like slag."

Still dazed by drugs and everything that had just happened, Perceptor simply found it easier to obey than question and crawled onto the berth, half expecting to be fondled or violated.

Deadlock stared at him for a long moment, his frown deepening. "I’ll be in the other room,” he said, before walking away and leaving Perceptor alone.

Perceptor sat on the berth feeling confused and both physically and emotionally drained. Maybe this was all just a drug-induced dream? Or maybe he was offline and having some sort of nightmarish processor feedback? He sighed air from his intakes and lay down, curling up on his side in the large berth. It was then he noticed the berth was up against another ceiling to floor window, and he scooted over to the windowpane. Reaching out, he touched the cool surface and he stared up into the black sky above dotted in stars. He wished there was a way to leave his body and join those distant stars. A way to leave this painful world behind. He pulled his arm back to his chest. Soon, his body lost all tension as exhaustion seeped into every crevice of his frame. His thoughts, disjointed and fractured faded away as he finally slipped offline.

…

Perceptor lit his optics. He expected to be in a small, dark cell. Instead, he was on a berth, facing a window that looked out over Cybtertron. He winced as he rolled from his side to his back. His shoulder ached and burned where his microscope mount had been.

He glanced over and to his surprise, saw his new master lying on his front, recharging beside him. _Oh that’s right, there’s only the one berth,_ he thought. He gazed at Deadlock for a long moment. Offlined, the warrior’s face was slack and almost serene looking. The two little white finials jutting upward at an angle were quite unusual, striking even. Perceptor’s gaze traveled down Deadlock’s frame. He appeared to have had a lot of modifications done. Extra layers of plating, and what looked like hooks for mounting weaponry covered his body. 

The ache in Perceptor’s shoulder drew his attention and he reached up touching one of the severed connection mounts. It zinged with pain and he let out a small yelp. He immediately covered his mouth with a hand and glanced back over at Deadlock.

Two red optics were staring back at him.

“So they did cut something off you.” Deadlock’s voice was low. “Savages.” His new master rolled over and pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the berth. “Come on. I’m taking you to see my buddy.”

Perceptor sat up, and unlike the day before his mind felt clearer. The drugs seemed to be mostly processed out of his systems, but he still felt off in a way he couldn’t pinpoint.

“Let’s go.” Deadlock sounded impatient.

Perceptor nodded, and then scooted off the berth and stood up. At least he wasn’t dizzy anymore. Though, the pain in his shoulder from moving his arm made him grimace. Deadlock headed toward the door and Perceptor followed him, trying to ignore the pain.

Picking up the lead, Deadlock frowned as he glanced at Perceptor. “Sorry.” He then reached over and hooked it to the collar. “I won’t pull on it as long as you keep step with me, understand?”

Perceptor nodded, again.

Deadlock then canted his head. “I forgot to ask you last night. What’s your name?”

As juvenile as it was, Perceptor didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t want to speak. His voice was the one last thing he could exert any control over now. The one thing he could keep for himself. Deadlock would have to earn his trust if he ever wanted to hear it. He dropped his gaze to the floor, his joints tightening as he waited for a violent reaction to his defiance.

With a thick sigh of air expelling from Deadlock’s vents, he turned and opened the door.

Perceptor glanced up from under the rim of his helm, surprised. No reprimand?

Deadlock stepped into the hallway, loosely holding the end of the lead. He stopped and looked back at Perceptor, seemingly annoyed. “I really don’t want to have to yank you around on this fraggin’ thing. _Come on_."

Hesitantly, Perceptor stepped out into the hall.

…

Deadlock walked with purpose through the desolated area he’d brought Perceptor to, easily rounding the obstacles and debris littering the streets. Perceptor did his best to keep up and avoid tripping on anything. He also wondered who Deadlock’s ‘buddy’ was. Would be forced to into doing something like interface with a stranger? He quickly killed the line of thought. Even if that were his fate, thinking about it would do nothing but upset him. Becoming a piece of property coupled with the pain in his shoulder was upsetting enough for the moment.

Eventually, Deadlock led him to a building that looked completely dilapidated. They walked right up to the door and Deadlock loudly knocked.

A small rectangular opening in the middle of the door slid back, revealing a set of gold optics. “Oh! Hello, Deadlock.” The opening closed, and then the door itself hissed open.

They both entered. The inside of the building reminded Perceptor of Wheeljack’s old lab. It was messy with shelves that lined the walls covered scrap metal, parts, and various devices.

“So, this is him, huh?" The mech with the golden optics grinned, as he looked Perceptor up and down.

“Yep,” Deadlock replied.

"Well, then. Let’s get him properly checked out, shall we?" The golden optic’ed mech escorted them through a maze of more rooms, each filled with various scrapped items and parts. “Here we are,” he said as they ducked through a doorway.

Perceptor looked around the room they’d been led to. It had a berth in the middle, and a large computer system next to it. The shelves in this particular room were covered in different modification items, instead of the random scrap and devices he’d seen in the other rooms.

Their host motioned to the berth “Have a seat. I’m going to take a look at your shoulder.”

Deadlock reached up and undid the lead. His red optics focusing on Perceptor as their gazes met. “He was talking to you. Sit.”

Perceptor glanced over at the mech with gold optics who then warmly smiled. “I won’t hurt ya. I’m going to fix you up,” he said, patting the berth.

They were being nice to him? No. Perceptor couldn’t believe that. He looked back at Deadlock. How could this brutal looking mech not intend him any harm? That seemed ludicrous.

Deadlock frowned at Perceptor. “Just sit your aft down already.”

“Don’t mind him,” the golden optic’ed mech said. He walked over and took Perceptor’s arm, gently pulling him toward the berth.  “By the way, my name is Tremorwave. I’m a trained medic. I hated working in the facilities in the city, so I’ve been running my little business here. Deadlock’s been coming to me for ages to get different mods done, though. He comm’ed me last night, saying that he suspected something might be wrong with your shoulder.”

More than just something wrong, there was an important part of his body missing. Reluctantly, Perceptor sat down. He then noticed that Deadlock seemed to have lost interest in him, busily eyeing some of the mods on the shelves.

“So let me take a look at it, all right?” Treamorwave said. He leaned in close, examining the severed mounts. “What were these mounts holding before?”

Perceptor held fast to his silence and remained mute.

“He won’t talk,” Deadlock said after a moment.

Tremorwave’s gaze softened as he gazed into Perceptor’s face. “Been through a lot, haven’t you? I promise I want to help, not harm.” He then glanced at Deadlock. “Do you know his name?”

“Nope,” Deadlock replied as he pulled a gauntlet off one of the shelves, examining it.

“Hm.” Tremorwave sadly smiled at Perceptor. “At the very least, I need to know your name so I can pull up your information and see what that shoulder mount once was. I have so much junk here I might actually have a part to replace it with.”

Perceptor frowned. No part here could replace what was removed. He would need a new part fabricated to his particular specs. By the looks of things, that was far beyond what this mech’s facilities offered.

Tremorwave started riffling around his desk and pulled a small rectangular item with a cord running off it free of the mess. He plugged into his computer, and then took Perceptor’s hand, pressing it over the rectangular pad. It read Perceptor’s energy signal, which identified him. “There we go. Let’s see now…” He sat down at the computer console and pressed a few buttons to pull up his file. “Your name is _Perceptor_.”

Deadlock’s digging through the shelves stopped and he wandered closer, reading over Tremorwave’s shoulder. “A scientist?” He shifted his gaze to Peceptor, looking both surprised and intrigued.

“They removed his microscope mount. That’s a major piece of his anatomy.” Tremorwave also looked over at Perceptor. “I don’t have anything that can replace something like that,” he said sadly. “And by it’s removal, he won’t be able to transform any longer.”

“That’s fragged up,” Deadlock said. “Why would Swindle mutilate him like that?

“Swindle is the lowest of the low. Nothing he does surprises me. At the very least, I can reroute the relays so he won’t be in pain.” Tremorwave got back up and gently pushed on Perceptor’s good shoulder. “Lay back.”

Perceptor stared into Tremorwave’s golden optics. He had no reason to trust this mech, but he also had no other options. He couldn’t reroute his own wiring and the pain was definitely uncomfortable. With a soft sigh, he complied, lying back. After all, he had nothing more to lose at his point.

Deadlock’s optics dimmed as gazed at Perceptor and he sadly frowned, acting as if he actually cared. Perceptor reminded himself these were Decepticons. They didn’t care about anything other than revenge and greed. He purposely looked away.

Tremorwave wandered around the room, gathering some tools and putting them on a small rolling table. He rolled it over to the berth and pulled up a stool to sit. He opened a side panel on the berth and Perceptor suddenly realized this was actually a medical grade berth. That meant there were controls that could force him offline.

“When you online, you’ll feel much better! I promise,” Tremorwave said with a huge smile.

Perceptor tensed, but it was only for a moment. Tremorwave pressed a control and an electrical pulse interrupted Perceptor’s systems, forcing him offline.


	2. End of the road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm gonna leave my body  
> (Moving up to higher ground)  
> I'm gonna lose my mind  
> (History keeps pulling me down)," … 'Leave my body' by Florence + the Machine

Deadlock carted Perceptor onto Tremorwave’s shuttle, laying his unconscious frame out on a small berth in the back section. Standing up, he stared down at Perceptor for a long moment. This mech was an enigma to Deadlock. He expected warriors and fighters to appear on Swindle’s auction block, maybe even a couple medics that had been captured after the final battle. But a scientist? Why in the name of Primus would ascientist be at the final battle when Prime was killed? It made no sense to him.

“Taking off! Get your aft up here,” Tremorwave shouted.

Ducking out of the back, he moved to the cockpit of the small shuttle and took the co-pilot seat. “Thanks for the ride back,” Deadlock said as he half-smiled at his friend.

“No problem. Surgery was a little more complicated than I expected. That was one nasty amputation they did… He’ll be out a while. Besides, I have a mech to go meet and your place is on the way,” Tremorwave replied. He clicked on several switches, then pulled back the handle for the thrusters, initiating the engines.

“A mech to meet?” Deadlock asked.

“Lockdown. He’s got some merchandise for me to look at,” Tremorwave replied.

“I fragging hate that aft.” Deadlock crossed his arms over his chest.

Tremorwave grinned. “He maybe an aft, but he’s got the goods.”

Deadlock raised an optic ridge at his friend. “Right.”

“So, why did you buy that mech anyway? I thought you didn’t agree with the whole auctioning the Autobots off thing,” Tremorwave asked as they shot forward toward the main city.

“I don’t know,” Deadlock replied. “I guess I didn’t want Onslaught buying him.”

“You can’t save them all,” Tremorwave replied.

Deadlock frowned. “Don’t plan to.” He didn’t know if I was really saving him, or more just not letting Onslaught have what he wanted. He'd heard that Onslaught already killed the last Autobot he'd bought, and letting him have another didn't sit right with Deadlock. But it was more than just that. There was something about Perceptor that Deadlock couldn’t put his finger on. Up on the stage, he looked different than other mechs Deadlock had seen auctioned before. A mystery deepened by the knowledge that he wasn’t meant for fighting, but had been on Cybertron for the deciding battle anyway.

“Well, now that you have him, what are you going to do with him?” Tremorwave asked, giving Deadlock a sideways glance.

He gave a non-committal shrug.

Their short ride quickly came to an end as Tremorwave steered the shuttle toward the landing pad at the top of Deadlock’s apartment complex. “Well, can I give you a word of advice?”

Deadlock canted his head at his friend. “What?”

“If you want him to trust you, you’re going to need to open up a little.” Tremorwave set the shuttle down with hardly a bump. “Let him know you aren’t just another revenge driven ‘Con.”

“Oh? I’m not?” Deadlock asked with a smirk. “What do I care if he trusts me or not?”

Tremorwave frowned. “You’re living in that cramped apartment of yours with this mech. You gotta create some sort of relationship with him.” Then he half-smiled. “And who knows, maybe you’ll hit if off or something.”

Deadlock snorted. “Are you fragging kidding me? A science-geek isn’t my type. Definitely more up your alley. Besides, you know Turmoil thinks he owns me.”

“Turmoil… Now there’s a mech worth hating.” Tremorwave made a sour face. “I’d take Lockdown any day over that fragger. You do realize that you’re not a guttermech anymore, and you deserve better than some aft that thinks you belong him.”

Deadlock may no longer dwell in the gutter, but the stink of his life before the war still clung to him. He half-frowned, knowing his friend had no idea just how deeply entangled with Turmoil he really was. “Not like I have a choice with Turmoil.”

“I suppose… When does he come back from that mission he got sent out on anyway?” Tremorwave asked.

“Not sure. Honestly, I hope he never comes back,” Deadlock replied, half-frowning.

Tremorwave stared at Deadlock for a moment with a sad frown, then his mood suddenly flipped like a switch as he smiled. “All right, enough with the depressing slag. Get your aft off my ship and take your _friend_ with you. I don’t want to be late. Lockdown waits for no mech!”

Deadlock chuckled, knowing his friend’s little talks meant he cared. He got up and ducked in back to retrieve Perceptor. “Thanks again for the ride,” he said as he emerged.

“Anytime,” Tremorwave said as he eyed the mech in Deadlock’s grip. “You know, if he trusts you, things will go smoother between you two. Just saying…”  

“Later, Tremor.” Deadlock smiled as he shook his head at his friend and then hopped off the shuttle to the rooftop. He watched the shuttle lift off, then glanced down at the still offlined mech in his arms. “Trust, huh? You’d be a fool to trust me.”

…

Perceptor staggered out from the berth room and stood at the end of the small hall, looking out over the living area. He’d not expected to online back here, but after checking the time, he realized he’d been offline almost an entire day. Deadlock was nowhere to be seen, and the apartment appeared to be empty.

Out of habit, he rolled his shoulder, expecting to feel weight, but instead felt nothing. He touched a piece of his severed shoulder mount, and sure enough felt no pain at all. That medic had done a decent job rerouting the sensor relays. Physically the pain was gone, but his spark still ached with the loss of something that had been one of his defining features. He stood for a moment running his fingers over his shoulder, mourning his loss. Was this going to be his fate? To lose himself piece by piece? He frowned. _Not if I have any say in the matter_ , he thought.

He walked over to the table with the lead tossed on it, part of him hoping the drug vial pack was still there. It wasn’t. “So much for killing myself quickly.” Having not spoken since arriving here two days prior, it felt strange to hear himself. He stared at the lead, remembering how uncomfortable Deadlock appeared using it. At the medic’s small shop, he’d acted disinterested in Perceptor and yet he’d gone to the effort to have him repaired. _Why had this mech bought him?_ What in the world was his ultimate purpose for Perceptor?

Answers to these questions seemed out of reach. Perceptor wandered over to the large window in the living area, gazing out at the street below. This was now a Cybertron he didn’t know, alien and dark in its rebirth. A world he no longer held a true place in. He decided he would simply starve his systems into shut down. It would slow and painful, but better than being some Decepticon’s pet.

Staring down at the merchant shops below, Perceptor could see enough detail to distinguish differing mechs. He spotted Astrotrain walking into one shop. His spark sank when he recognized Red Alert being pulled along behind Starscream as they entered what looked like an energon bar. Perceptor touched the cool glass, wishing he could reach his comrades and some how save them. There was no saving anyone now, though. They’d lost.

The whoosh of the door opening startled him and he glanced over his shoulder. Deadlock stepped inside, covered from helm to pede in splatters of mech fluids and energon. From across the room Perceptor could smell the stench of death wafting off him. What had he been killing? Maybe Perceptor didn’t really want to know the answer to that…

“Up, I see.” Deadlock made a b-line for the table in front of his recliners, plucking up one of the dirtied glasses, then he walked back to the kitchette and filled it with energon.

Perceptor watched, horrified, as Deadlock sucked down his entire serving from the unclean glass.

After Deadlock finished, he set the glass on the counter and glanced over at Perceptor. “Feeling better?”

Frowning, Perceptor nodded.

“Still not talking, huh?” Deadlock asked with a wry-looking smile.

Perceptor looked back out the window, refusing to answer.

Deadlock walked toward the hallway then paused beside Perceptor. “I’m gonna get cleaned up.”

Perceptor kept his gaze pinned on the street below.

“You’re stubborn. I’ll give you that,” Deadlock said before proceeding down the hallway toward the washrack.

Once he was gone, Perceptor glanced back over at the dirty glasses on the small table and trail of footprints from where Deadlock had wandered around. This Decepticon was a walking disaster area. It offended what was left of Perceptor’s sense of decorum. After all, he used to keep his lab and home pristine. Turning his gaze back out the window, he chose not to care. If this mech wanted to live in fifth, what did it matter to him? He didn’t plan on being online much longer anyway.

...

_The shuttle platform was being cleared for lift off. A few of the severely injured mechs were loaded into the last working shuttle the Autobots had. Perceptor worked non-stop for the last three days finalizing a device that would cloak the ship from scanners and visual sensors. Technology he’d come across on a distant planet during his time with the Wrecker crew that he’d managed to adapt to the shuttle’s systems._

_“I said to go.” Perceptor gently pushed Ratchet toward the shuttle._

_“Optimus will need a medic here, Percy. You designed the cloaking shield for the shuttle. You need to be on board in case something goes wrong with it,” Ratchet replied with a deep frown._

_“Wheeljack can deal with any issues that might arise with the device. Besides, you and I both know that I am capable of tending wounded once we are in battle. The mechs on the shuttle are already suffering injuries that need your expertise and care. Now go,” Perceptor said and he pointed to the shuttle._

_“Percy, if you stay… you won’t survive,” Ratchet replied, his voice softening._

_“I know that.” Perceptor dimmed his optics. “Unlike you, I do not have a reason to worry about my survival.”_

_“Ratch! Let’s go! We only have a small window to get off planet,” Wheeljack shouted from the shuttle doorway._

_“You have a bondmate, Ratchet. I do not,” Perceptor said in a serious tone of voice as he gestured to Wheeljack. “Now please, go,”_

_Ratchet reached up and gave Perceptor’s shoulder a small squeeze. “I don’t know what to say... Except good luck.”_

_“Same to you,” Perceptor replied._

_He watched Ratchet board the shuttle and give Perceptor one last long look before being pulled inside so the door could shut. Ratchet was right; his chances of survival were slim at best. But at least he could attempt to help the injured, or put them out of their misery if it came to it. Megatron’s forces were gathering and they vastly outnumbered the remaining Autbots. The end of their millennia long war was at hand._

_A hand on Perceptor’s shoulder from behind startled him. He flinched and glanced at the mech who’d touched him. “Optimus…”_

_“I want you to know that your choice to stay is very much appreciated,” Optimus said in a solemn tone._

_Perceptor sadly smiled as he nodded._

._._._.

Wincing, Perceptor onlined. He desperately wished there was a way to shut off memory feedback during recharges. He’d traded places with Ratchet, allowing him and the others to make it off planet before they were defeated. He expected to die on a battlefield, not in a berth through energon starvation.

Through the darkness of the room, he looked over at the mech in the berth with him. Deadlock was on his front, sensors dead to the world around him. Still, the sadness welling up in Perceptor’s chassis was something he didn’t feel safe letting loose. He choked down his desire to cry, and shifted his gaze out the window. Staring up into the sky, he hoped wherever his escaped comrades were, that they were healthy and safe.

…

After a long day of killing Swarm and dismantling their nests with his assigned crew, Deadlock returned home. Walking in, he saw his Autobot was in what had become over the last few days his usual place, sitting on the floor beside the window. He’d assumed giving Perceptor some time and space to adjust to living here would be enough, but he was starting to think Tremorwave was right about working out something more akin to a friendship. That was a tall order, though. Deadlock didn’t let anyone close to him these days; it simply wasn’t safe to do so.

He picked up the glass on the counter and filled it, gulping down his fuel as he quietly watched Perceptor. Over the last few days not a word had escaped his lips. He’d only nodded in agreement or else didn’t acknowledge Deadlock’s attempts to talk to him. It was pretty infuriating, actually. After all, he’d saved this Autobot from being raped and tortured, and even gone to the trouble of having his shoulder injury tended to. Not an ounce of gratitude was offered in return. He finished his energon, and set the glass back on the counter with a thunk.

Deadlock walked over with heavy steps to where Perceptor sat in front of the window. He looked at the street below at his fellow Decepticons going about their business, briefly wondering why Perceptor found it so fascinating. Then he shifted his gaze to his Autobot.

“We going on day five of silence?” Deadlock asked, letting his annoyance lace his voice.

Perceptor glanced up at him, vaguely frowning, but he didn’t say anything.

Any venomous words Deadlock might have let loose died on his lips as he stared into those blue optics so filled with sadness and loss. Physical pain was one thing, but emotional pain always left Deadlock floundering. He had no idea how to help Perceptor, and in his spark he knew there was nothing he could really do. Either this mech would rebound on his own or else he’d remain like this, despondent and shut down.

Deadlock sighed air from his intakes. “I’m gonna get cleaned up.”

Perceptor’s gaze returned to the scene outside the window.

Tromping into the washrack, Deadlock turned on the sprayer and quickly squirted cleanser over his frame. Cleanser, water and Swarm guts mixed together and made a swirled pink and purple shape as they raced down the drain.

He stood under the warm spray of water, questioning his choice in buying this Autobot. He actually found the auctions distasteful and felt some guilt in having taken part in them. He’d intervened to save this mech from a worse fate, though. Unlike his fellow Decepticons he had no intentions on harming him, but he hadn’t fully thought through the implications of sharing his home, either.

Being a formerly homeless mech, he didn’t mind sharing what he now had. This might seem like a small apartment to mechs like Tremorwave, but to him it was more space than he’d ever had before. If only this Autobot would accept his hospitality and willingness to share, instead of stewing in his apparent emotional pain.

Maybe Perceptor just needed a little more time…

…

_“Fraggit,” Drift muttered as he turned into a dark alleyway. Pain seared his sensory net from a shot he’d taken through his arm. He didn’t have time to think, though. He needed to get out of here. Voices of the security force echoed in the distance as he made his way down the alley to the open grate he crawled up to get to this part of the city. He dropped down the hole and moved the cover back in place with his uninjured arm._

_Beneath the city were tunnels that collected the grime from sidewalk and street washes. It was dank and dirty down here, and the tunnels were small, barely the size of one mech. Drift had to duck down to not clang his head against the top. They were also the perfect hidden way to get around without detection. No one ever checked them._

_He made his way through the tunnel system with ease, knowing exactly where he was in relation to the streets above with each twist and turn. Arriving at his destination, he pushed back a cover for the grate over his head and sighed. He’d need both arms to pull himself back up. He grabbed hold and with concerted effort made it out of the grate hole. His injured arm protested the abuse, flaring with pain as mechfluid seeped from the gaping hole. He ignored the inflamed injury as best he could._

_Back in his own neighborhood where other unfortunates like himself ‘lived’, he made a b-line for his chosen destination. Two streets down, just past a Simulation junkie house was an underpass for one of the major highways out of the city. He made a b-line toward the makeshift shelter he’d recently been calling home. Crates and pieces of scrap metal were arranged to look like a junk pile, but he knew better. Dipping under one of the metal beams, he turned sideways to slide past two large crates and through a small opening to the cozy space within._

_“Drift!” Gasket hopped to his feet, apparently happy to see him. His smile faded as his optics focused on his injured arm. “You’re hurt!”_

_“Eh, it’s nothing,” Drift replied. He kneeled down and reached into his subspace pocket with his uninjured arm, pulling out what he’d been shot stealing. He deposited four energon rations, three cards loaded with credits, and a box of energon goodies on the ground. With a lopsided smile he looked up at Gasket. “Got some treats for you.”_

_Gasket glanced at the box of energon goodies and warmly smiled. “You spoil me, you know that?”_

_“I try,” Drift replied._

_Gasket shook his head. “Sit. Lemmie clean that up.”_

_Drift complied, moving to sit on one of the crates they used as a chair. Gasket pulled a repair kit out from underneath his stash of things he’d collected. Popping it open, he frowned. “Running out of cleanser.” With a rag he’d used many times before, he poured what was left of the cleanser onto it. Then he reached up and carefully cleaned Drift’s injury._

_“I’ll steal some more,” Drift replied._

_Gasket laughed a little. “Just don’t get shot while doing it, ‘kay?”_

_Drift smiled at Gasket. He didn’t like thinking about the feelings this mech evoked in him, but he knew what they shared ran deeper than any other relationship he’d been in before. Gasket’s lightness and ability to have hope in the face of so much darkness helped keep Drift from slipping into the undertow of despair from their hand to mouth existence._

_Once the injury was cleaned, Gasket carefully stowed the items back in their place. “You need to rest. Let your autorepair work.”_

_Drift got to his feet, and took Gasket’s hand. No words were needed. Gasket followed him to the ‘berth’ area, which was simply a piece of metal they’d bent into a berth’s shape. They settled in, and Drift took his usual position curled up beside Gasket on his front. He rested his injured arm over Gasket’s chest and gave him a little squeeze._

_“Thanks for cleaning me up,” Drift said._

_“Thanks for bringing back all that stuff. You should be more careful, though. I don’t wanna lose ya,” Gasket replied._

_Drift pressed his face against Gasket’s upper arm and offlined his optics. “I don’t want to lose you, either.”_

…

Perceptor went rigid. Deadlock had been making small noises and mumbling while recharging, but in the final throws of what he guessed was memory feedback he’d rolled to his front and pressed himself against Perceptor, with one arm slung over Perceptor’s chest plate. After that, he’d calmed again.

Now Perceptor was stiff as a beam in the berth with this Decepticon clinging to him. No one had been close like this to him in… eons. As of yet, Deadlock had shown little interest in him. Over the last few days, he’d come and gone as if Perceptor wasn’t really there. He'd only speak to him occasionally or when it was time to recharge, herding him into the berth. It was disheartening to know he meant so little to this mech that had spent a good chunk of credits on him and even had his shoulder repaired. But at the same time it made his lack of fueling easier to conceal and any wisps of hope still left in him were floating away now. Not even this mech seemed to care what happened to him, so why should he? It was time to leave this cruel and hate-filled world behind.

He offlined his optics, and tried to force himself to rest. Without visual input, he was made hyper aware of the soft vibration of Deadlock’s body against him, the warmth and weight of the limb lying over his chest.

His thoughts wandered to the last time he’d been in this position. It was early in the war. He’d just joined the Autobots, and quickly developed a small crush on the CMO. After a few orns of awkwardly attempting to flirt with him, he’d been excited to be invited back to Ratchet’s quarters after shifts for the evening. He’d woken with the medic in a very similar position to Deadlock’s, curled up beside him. Of course, he’d also quickly learned that Ratchet committed to no one in particular. His spark-break over learning he’d just been another mech in Ratchet’s berth had been hard enough, but when he returned from his tour with the Wreckers he found out Ratchet and Wheeljack were bonded. That news had deeply stung. After that, he stopped reaching out to other mechs, choosing a solitary existence.

Perceptor onlined his optics, again. Primus, he was pathetic.

Fingers twitched against his chest. He glanced over and saw two red optics dimly light. Deadlock was focused on his own hand, though, as he slowly let his fingers trail over Perceptor. He seemed dazed, still lost whatever memory had caused him to cross the berth. Deadlock traced the edge of Perceptor’s beveled edged chest plate, over his abdomen and up his arm.

“You’re cold to the touch,” Deadlock said, his voice rough sounding as his vocalizer came to life.

Perceptor remained mute.

Deadlock shifted, moving over Perceptor and pressing his audio to Perceptor’s chest. He stared up at Perceptor, hardness taking over the lines of his face. “Your systems are staining.” Suddenly, his optics brightened. “You haven’t been fueling?”

What did he care? He’d barely cast a glance in Perceptor’s direction over the last few days.

His optics narrowed as he pushed himself sit up next to Perceptor. “So that’s how you want to die? _Starvation?_ ” Deadlock said, anger lacing his voice. “What the frag is wrong with you? There’s a dispenser! Use it!”

Perceptor frowned at Deadlock, defiant and silent.

Deadlock narrowed his optics. “You have no idea how good you have it here. Place to stay, free energon, I don’t abuse or torture you. I leave you be.” He looked offended and almost hurt by Perceptor’s bid for death.

“Do you even realize that if Onslaught had won you, how much worse off you’d be?” Deadlock asked.

Tired of life, of Deadlock, of everything, Perceptor rolled to his side with his back to his master. He felt a chill run through his frame and shivered. His systems were slowly starting to shut down on him. He’d be free soon enough.

He heard Deadlock get up and tromp out of the berthroom. He softly sighed air from his intakes and relaxed, offlining his optics. Just as he was about to slip into a light recharge, heavy footfall brought him back to consciousness. He heard Deadlock sit down on the berth. After a long moment of silence, Perceptor became curious and looked over his shoulder. Deadlock was sitting with his back to him and a cube of energon at his side on the berth.

Deadlock suddenly spoke. “You know, I had nothing before this war. I starved. I stole. I fragged for credits when I was really desperate. All that time you probably sat in some fancy house, sipping your never-ending supply of energon totally unaware of the mechs like me living in squalor. The one thing I had, the thing I clung to, was taken from me and I snapped. I killed a couple of mechs with my bare hands in retaliation. I joined the Decepticons and for the first time had a constantly full fuel tank. Thing is, what I saw in the cause back then is not what I see now. The oppression of the classes is still here. Only worse. Sick fraggers like Onslaught are allowed to buy an Autobot and torture them, kill them. And not for survival. Not for a cause. But for the sick pleasure of oppressing those that oppressed us. After everything that’s happened, _nothing_ has really changed.”

Perceptor shifted to lie on his back, again. If that was all true, it certainly explained a lot about Deadlock’s behavior. It didn’t, however, explain why he’d bought Perceptor in the first place. His curiosity overrode his desire to control, and he finally decided to speak. To finally ask the question that had been at the forefront of his mind since arriving here. “Why did you buy me?” Perceptor asked.

The sound of his voice seemed to startle Deadlock. The fighter’s body stiffened and his optics brightened as he twisted at the waist to look over at Perceptor. “You spoke…”

Perceptor narrowed his optics. “ _Why_ did you buy me?”

“I—you have an accent.” Deadlock stared at Perceptor.

Deeply frowning, Perceptor asked one last time. “ _Why?_ ”

Deadlock shook his head. “I couldn’t let Onslaught have you.”

Not a very satisfying answer. Perceptor stared at the other for a long moment, hoping for something more, but Deadlock offered nothing. Perceptor shook his head at him then and then turned away, offlining his optics.

There was a long stretch of silence before Deadlock suddenly spoke again. “And you looked like you still had some hope left. It seemed especially cruel to let someone like that fragger destroy you.”

Relighting his optics, Perceptor glanced at Deadlock. “Only I deserved saving?”

“The others all looked defeated. Like they’d given up,” Deadlock replied.

“They were drugged,” Perceptor replied.

Looking very serious, Deadlock frowned. “So were you. Trust me. I know the difference between mechs that give up and those that still have a spark of hope left in them.”

“Hope only ends with disappointment,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock then cracked a small smile. “I won’t argue with you on that.”

“So why buy me then act as if I’m not even here?” Perceptor asked.

The small smile on Deadlock’s lips faded. “Just giving you some time and space to adjust. Besides, you weren’t talking. Not like I could interact with you,” Deadlock replied. He then pushed the cube toward Perceptor.“Will you do me a favor and stop offending me by starving yourself, though? If you want to die, do it some other way. Or, maybe stop being so stubborn and be glad you’re here and not someplace else. I know this is really just a fancy prison and all that, but it's better than most have it."

Perceptor wasn’t sure he should trust this mech, this Decepticon. Though, it was clear that Deadlock didn’t hold any illusions about what this place was from Perceptor’s point of view: a prison. It was true that he’d not been violent or abusive in anyway so far. Just neglectful.  Perceptor knew how foolish it was to hope for anything other than death in his current circumstance, and yet here he was doing exactly that. Hoping for something better. Precisely what, he wasn't entirely sure.

Maybe it was his fuel-deprived state, or maybe he really was the biggest fool to ever to be sparked, but he decided at that moment he wouldn’t give up his life just yet. He sat up and picked up the energon. He took one look at the stained edges of the glass and sighed air from his intakes.

Glancing up, he saw that Deadlock staring at him, watching and waiting.

Perceptor dimmed his optics and chose the cleanest part of the glass to sip from. Slowly, he ingested small doses of fuel. Letting it settle in his empty tank, he could feel warmth returning to him as under fueled systems began to come back online.

“You look better already,” Deadlock commented.

Perceptor frowned as he cast a glance in his master’s direction. Yes, no matter what he hoped, there was no getting around the fact that this mech _owned_ him. It was something that made him angry, but also something he had no control over… The thing he did have control over was his life and whether to end it or not. Oddly, that offered a measure of comfort in the face of uncertainty.  

“I can’t really stick around. I have to report in,” Deadlock got to his feet, towering over Perceptor. “Be online when I get back?”

Perceptor simply nodded.

"Good. See ya in a while then." He then turned and walked out, the sound of the front door opening and hissing back shut echoed down the small hallway.

Fingering the dirty glass, Perceptor made another decision. If he was going to go on living in this place a little while longer, then this filth had to be cleaned up.


	3. Wants or Needs?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I changed the rating of this story to include "rape/non-con". Be warned, this chapter contains a scene that might not suitable for anyone who is sensitive to anything related to non-consensual sexual situations. 
> 
> “I don't need a husband, don't need no wife   
> And I don't need the day, I don't need the night   
> And I don't need the birds, let them fly away   
> And I don't want the crowds, they never seem to stay 
> 
> I don't want no future (want your future)   
> I don't need no past (need your past)   
> One bright moment (one bright moment)   
> Is all I ask (all I ask)” 
> 
> \- ‘Leave by Body’ by Florence + the Machine

Walking into the apartment, Deadlock was immediately struck by the fact that his Autobot wasn’t in his usual place beside the window. Concerned after their morning ‘talk’, he looked around but he didn’t see Perceptor anywhere in the living area. He walked back toward the berthroom and heard water running from the washrack. The door had been left wide open, so he cautiously approached and peered inside.

Perceptor was on his hands and knees scrubbing the washrack stall floor.  He seemed focused on his task, not noticing Deadlock looming in the doorway.

“You don’t need to do that,” Deadlock finally said, his voice echoing off the metallic walls.

Perceptor practically jumped in response, looking over his shoulder at Deadlock with brightened optics. His posture sunk a little, and then he turned back to his chore, pushing the cleaning brush over the metallic floor.

Deadlock watched for a moment, somewhat troubled by the scene before him. He didn’t intend for Perceptor to become slave labor. He just wanted him to feel at home here. He stepped inside the stall and squatted down, putting his hand on Perceptor’s arm.

“Stop,” Deadlock said in a sharp tone of voice.

Perceptor glanced up at him. Neither said a word, as they each stared into one another’s optics for a tense moment.

“I don’t think suicide by way of soap is the way to go,” Deadlock said with a half-smile.

“A joke,” Perceptor said, seemingly more to himself than Deadlock as he deeply frowned.

Deadlock’s smile faded. “I guess I don’t really know how to talk to you.”

Sitting back on his heels, Perceptor continued to frown at Deadlock. “I believe there is much we do not understand about one another.”

Primus, his voice was beautiful. Deadlock had never heard an accent like Perceptor’s before, soft and melodic. “That’s true.” He glanced down at his hand, still holding Perceptor’s arm. He lightly squeezed the turquoise forearm in his grasp. “I don’t want you to think you have to be my maid or something, though.”

“This home is a disaster.” Perceptor gestured to the washrack floor. “Splattered with the internals of whatever you go out and kill during the day.”

“ _Swarm_ ,” Deadlock replied.

“Excuse me?” Perceptor looked at Deadlock, confused.

“ _Swarm_. They are an experiment that got out of hand. Skorpinok figured out how to make a lower lifeform that multiply through cloning. They devour everything in their path. I’m part of a team that destroys them and dismantles their nests,” Deadlock explained.

Perceptor’s gaze raked over Deadlock’s frame. “You are not dirtied today.”

“We scouted, mapping out where to move in next. Boring as slag.” Deadlock let go of his light hold on Perceptor’s arm.

“I see,” Perceptor quietly replied.

Deadlock pushed back up to stand, and then offered his hand to help Perceptor to his feet. Shaking his head, Perceptor refused it.

“I cannot live in filth.” Perceptor fingered the brush. “I’d like to finish cleaning.”

Letting his hand drop to his side, Deadlock furrowed his brow. It seemed that Perceptor wanted to do this, so who was he to stop him? “Sure, do whatever you want.”

Deadlock walked to the doorway and paused to look over his shoulder. Perceptor leaned forward and continued to scrub at the stained floor. With a small sigh, Deadlock exited the washrack and wandered out to the kitchenette to have some energon.

“Where’s my glass?” he asked himself as he stared at the counter where he’d left it earlier. His gaze traveled down the countertop to the small sink. Just beside it, sat all his glasses neatly lined up on a cloth. He picked one up, noticing how it practically sparkled it was so clean. _My Autobot is a neat freak?_ he thought _._  

Shrugging it off, he filled his glass and then proceeded to his favorite reclining chair, sinking down to sit and clicking on his giant vid screen. Never having the means for luxury items like in home vid screens, let alone a home, he’d made sure to get the nicest one available. The Decepticons had yet to re-establish a network that consisted of entertainment programming, but he’d scavenged for old data files and loaded his vid screen with endless episodes of shows he’d never seen before.

He’d been watching a series that was drama about corrupt police, and turned on the next episode. Within a breem, he was thoroughly absorbed into the show.

“This series is quite old.”

Deadlock jerked his head toward the voice, looking over to see Perceptor standing beside the other reclining chair. “Never saw it before,” he replied.

Perceptor stood in silence, staring at the screen.

Deadlock tried to refocus on the show, but with Perceptor just standing there, he found it was too distracting to concentrate. “You know, you’re welcome to sit down,” he said in a grumbled voice.

Taking the verbal cue, Perceptor sat down on the edge of the other chair.

“If you’ve seen it, no spoilers,” Deadlock said.

Perceptor looked at Deadlock and nodded.

Neither said a word as the show played to the end of the episode. Deadlock clicked through the menu to pick the next episode, but paused before starting it to glance over at Perceptor. His Autobot wasn’t even looking at the vid screen. Instead, he was gazing out the nearby window from where he sat while fingering the collar around his neck.

Deadlock wasn’t sure how to go about making friends with a mech so clearly unlike himself, but as Tremorwave pointed out he was sharing his home with Perceptor. He should at least try to find a balance between them. So long as he didn’t let himself get too emotionally attached, it should be all right.

“Why do you always look out the window?” Deadlock asked, genuinely curious.

Perceptor’s gaze shifted in Deadlock’s direction and his hand dropped back into his lap. His optics’ blue hue dimmed. “Just observing.”

Deadlock furrowed his brow. He really had no idea how to reply to that. “Wanna watch another episode?”

“I’ve already seen this program,” Perceptor replied, though, he spoke as if it were a statement about himself, not really an answer to Deadlock’s question. Perceptor settled into the chair then nodded. “I will watch with you.”

Deadlock pressed play as he offered Perceptor a small smile. Perceptor stared at him for a moment, and then the barest hint of a smile curled his lips. It only lasted an astro-second and happened so quickly that Deadlock wasn’t sure he’d really seen it. Still, he took it as a little bit of progress. It might not be the most auspicious start to forming a friendship, but it was better than nothing.  

…

Routine. Perceptor had always thrived on it. Craved it. Felt most stable when he had one to abide by. Deadlock’s comings and goings were scheduled, and within an orn, Perceptor had managed to build a routine around his master’s daily behavior.

He would online when Deadlock did. Clean various areas of the apartment and spend some time gazing out the window while Deadlock was away. Upon his return, they’d have energon together. If Deadlock needed to wash up, Perceptor would sit at the window until he was done. They’d spend the remainder of the evening watching whatever old programs Deadlock chose. They didn’t talk much, and their interactions were always somewhat awkward, but it was a routine that Perceptor accepted and lived within. He had to, or else he felt he’d shatter.

This nearly daily routine had offered some measure of stability, but it still left many gaping holes within Perceptor. He felt lost, and his spark constantly ached in his chest. Cleaning was the purpose he’d given himself, but it was hollow in comparison to his former life where his intelligence had once been his most respected asset. Sadness from the overwhelming feelings of loss often welled up in him and would spill over when he was alone. Doing mundane tasks, such as standing in the kitchenette washing the glasses, he’d suddenly tear up and begin to sob. He tried to control these pained emotions that permeated his mind, his spark, but he was weak. Broken inside and out.

It was late in the afternoon. All that needed to be cleaned he’d already tended to. Perceptor pulled the secondary recliner closer to the window, and sat in it with his legs pulled up to his chest. He gazed at the various mechs outside. They’d walk along as if this new world they’d created and lived in was totally normal. He watched as if observing specimens in a glass container. Noted their behavior toward one another in the street, and hoped to catch a glimpse of other Autobots that might have also survived.

The door to the apartment slid open, ending his observations. Unlike the usual measured steps Deadlock walked with, his steps were fast and loud. Perceptor shifted in the chair to see around the back. Deadlock appeared to be in a hurry. He filled his energon glass and gulped it down. Usually, he’d fill a second one for Perceptor and hand it to him. A way to be sure his property wasn’t starving. Today, he did not.

Routine, disrupted.

Deadlock rinsed his glass, then set it with the other clean ones. Turning toward the hallway he paused when he noticed Perceptor watching him. “Hey. Gotta clean up. I’m going out. Won’t be back until late.”

Perceptor stared into his red optics, then nodded.

“Sorry.” Deadlock tromped down the hall and the sound of the washrack door snapping shut echoed from the berthroom.

Sinking back into the recliner, Perceptor sighed air from his intakes. What kind of life was he leading, anyway? This was a dazed, pained existence where his presence here with Deadlock felt so cursory. Perceptor coiled himself into a ball in the recliner chair and slipped into a number state of being. If he didn’t, he’d end up crying and that was the last thing he wanted to do in front of Deadlock.

Less than a breem later, Deadlock emerged, his plating shiny and clean. He didn’t even look at Perceptor as he walked past him. Insignificant, unimportant… Perceptor’s self hatred flared to the surface so easily. He shouldn’t care what Deadlock thought of him, and yet he knew it mattered to him far more than he wanted to admit. Some misplaced desire to please him. To mean something to him.

“Here.” Deadlock shoved a cube of energon at Perceptor.

Unwinding himself, Perceptor sat properly in the chair and took the offered cube. Maybe he did matter in some small way to Deadlock?

Deadlock squatted beside the recliner, gazing into Perceptor’s optics. “Just watch whatever you want on the vid screen. I’ll be back at some point, but it might not be until morning.”

Perceptor wanted to know where Deadlock was going, but felt he had no right to ask such a thing. He nodded, indicating he understood.

Awkwardly, Deadlock forced a small smile as he rose back to his full height. “See ya later.”

“Good bye,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock’s optics glinted brighter for a moment, before he turned and exited the small apartment, leaving Perceptor alone.

Holding the cube between his hands, he stared down at the glowing fuel. He disliked his routine being disrupted. Lifting the cube to his lips, he took a long sip. An unsettled feeling flitted through his frame, causing him to shiver. Pulling his legs up again, he folded back up into the recliner, and slowly drank his energon. It was going to be a long, lonely night.

…

Everything about Turmoil was rough. His plating. His voice. His touch. “Miss me?” Turmoil asked, leaning in close to Deadlock.

Deadlock narrowed his optics. “What do you think?”

Here he was again, in Turmoil’s quarters, submitting to him. Deadlock’s time free of him was over for now. Turmoil had returned earlier that day, his mission to locate the escaped ship of Autobots left unfulfilled. He’d be sent back out once his ship was restocked and the crew had some time on planet to recoup.

He’d wasted no time pinging Deadlock once he his ship had docked.

“Why not join my crew again? Be my first officer?” Turmoil asked.

Deadlock lay on his front, hands bound behind him, the side of his face pressed to the cool surface of Turmoil’s berth. He felt the larger mech’s weight shift over him, fingers roughly massaging his hip plating.

“No thanks. I hate being cooped up. Ships are stifling,” Deadlock replied.

“But we had such a nice time when you were under my command…” Turmoil moved his hands between Deadlock’s thighs, pushing them apart. “Oh well. I’ll just have to get my fill of you while I can.”

Deadlock hated Turmoil. Hated that he had no control with him. No true escape from him, only small reprieves. He’d once tried to tell Turmoil to frag off and leave him alone. He’d fought back. He also learned the hard way that no one leaves Turmoil unless he lets them. A piece of thick plating he’d had Tremorwave mod to his frame covered that particular lesson’s scar along his back. At least by going directly to Megatron with his request for an assignment, he’d managed to keep himself grounded on planet, safely out of Turmoil’s reach while he’d been gone.

His interface cover was roughly pushed open, fingers rimming his valve opening. Deadlock tried his best to relax his frame, knowing it would be easier if he didn’t tense up. Turmoil pressed a finger past the opening, probing the internal space of his valve. Deadlock offlined his optics, detaching his emotions as if they were pieces of removable armor. The first finger pulled back, then was joined by a second, thick and coarse-feeling, stretching his valve.

“Tight. You haven’t been fragging anyone lately?” Turmoil asked.

Deadlock dimly lit his optics. “No.”

“Good,” Turmoil replied with an edge of possessiveness.

He continued to knead and push at the inner mesh walls of Deadlock’s valve, working it over, preparing it. By emotionally detaching, Deadlock was able to forget about who was behind him, whose fingers were digging deep inside him and found he could glean some small pleasure from the contact. His valve finally started to slick with fluid, and he quietly sighed air from his intakes. Turmoil was taking his time this evening, and Deadlock thought maybe this time, he’d actually get to overload. That was one of Turmoil’s favorite ways to control, not allowing him to ever reach that lovely peek of pleasure. Pushing him to the edges of it and then pulling back.

A charge began to build, and Deadlock did his best to hide how good it felt. Fighting his body’s desire to move, his vocalizer’s yearn to whine. Turmoil suddenly paused. Deadlock stilled. Turmoil wriggled his fingers inside, and unable to help it, Deadlock let a small grunt escape his vocalizer.

Pulling his fingers free, Turmoil chuckled. “Almost. But if you want to overload, you’ll have to _earn_ it.”

Having not overloaded with Turmoil since their first few encounters, Deadlock wondered what he could possibly do to ‘earn it’ anyway.

Turmoil grabbed Deadlock by his hips, and pulled him up. “On your knees.”

Due to his arms bound behind him, Deadlock was forced to smoosh his face into the berth as he complied with the order. He felt the poke of Turmoil’s spike against his thigh as the larger mech positioned himself. Deadlock expected the girth of the large spike to invade him. Instead a felt something cold and oddly shaped shoved inside him. He jerked, growling.

“What the frag is that?” Deadlock asked.

“You like it?” Turmoil asked, amusement lacing his voice. The object was twisted, it’s strange shape bending the walls of his valve. “It’s a little toy. Well… not that little.”

Deadlock grumbled. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t feel good either. Turmoil rubbed his rigid spike against Deadlock’s thigh as he continued to twist and pull whatever he’d just put inside Deadlock’s valve. A moan of pleasure escaped Turmoil’s vocalizer as he rubbed his spike harshly against Deadlock. Any charge of pleasure Deadlock had felt was gone, lost in his disgust for Turmoil and the coldness of the object against the mesh lining.

The object was removed abruptly, and replaced with Turmoil’s hot spike spreading open Deadlock’s valve, which quivered as it tried to accommodate the girth. Deadlock cursed as he as he gritted his dentia and offlined his optics. Turmoil laughed. “Ah, so you did miss me!” With that, Turmoil began to pound away, not bothering to wait for Deadlock’s body to adjust. There was no pleasure to be had, only the raw feeling of being forced to take the entirety of Turmoil with each hard thrust.

It went on for a while, and Deadlock mentally slipped away. Finding a dark quiet corner in his mind to hide in until Turmoil was done.

Turmoil’s pace slowed, then stopped. He slipped out of Deadlock’s valve then slapped his aft. “Flip over.”

Deadlock relit his optics and twisted to lie on his side. With the larger mech’s assistance, he flipped onto his back. His arms bound behind him caused his chest to arch upward. He frowned at Turmoil, annoyed and already tired of being here. Tired of everything regarding this twisted relationship he’d been coerced into.

Turmoil reached out, trailing his fingers slowly over Deadlock’s arched chest, down his abdomen and pausing at his spike. He flicked the half erect spike and snorted. “Don’t find me a turn on this evening?”

Narrowing his optics, Deadlock practically snarled. “Is this going to take much longer?”

An angered grunt accompanied Turmoil’s movement as he lunged forward and smacked Deadlock across the face. It stung but not enough to quell the rising anger inside Deadlock’s chassis. Having been free of this abuse while Turmoil was away now put into sharp focus just how fragged up this entire situation was. Just how much he didn’t want to be trapped here anymore.

The red visor deepened in hue. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you and you’re already eager to finish up and leave?”

Turmoil sat back and shoved Deadlock’s legs wide apart with enough force to push his hip’s joints past their usual rotation. Pain rippled across his sensory net from the joints protesting the rough treatment. Turmoil then pulled Deadlock by the hips into his lap, stabbing him with his still erect spike. It sunk in deeply and Turmoil made a satisfied-sounding groan. “You belong to me. Or have you forgotten in my absence? Need I remind you?” His hip joints felt like they were burning, bent at an odd angle in Turmoil’s lap. 

Deadlock scowled up at him.

“You belong to me!” Turmoil roared.

Deadlock’s face set into a hard frown as he mustered his most defiant glare.

With a deep growl, Turmoil pulled back and slammed his spike hard into Deadlock’s valve, scraping the valve roof. “You may have escaped being on my ship with your little bypass move, going directly to Megatron, but you will _always_ belong to me. You understand?”

Turmoil quickly resumed his hard, rough thrusts increasing in speed, anger practically pouring off his frame in waves as he grunted hard with each push. His large black hands wrapped around Deadlock’s waist and he squeezed, crushing the outer pieces of paneling. Deadlock was already nearing his limits, his valve aching in pain and his hips now completely misaligned from being jarred sharply with each push of Turmoil’s spike. He should have been more compliant, but his hatred overrode logic. Turmoil’s pace reached a fevered pitch and then he suddenly pulled out of Deadlock’s valve, squirting hot mech fluid in an arch over his abdomen, marking him.  

“There. Done. Happy now?” Turmoil asked, his voice dark and angry.

Deadlock lay still, choosing not to dignify the question with an answer.

“Ungrateful aft,” Turmoil said as he shoved Deadlock off his lap, then hauled him up to sit by his arm. “I would have thought you’d know how to please me by now.”

Honestly, Deadlock had no clue how to ‘please’ Turmoil. Nothing he did, whether he was compliant or whether he fought back seemed to sate this mech.

Shoving Deadlock to turn, Turmoil undid the binds on his wrists. “Get the frag out of my sight.”

Finally an order he’d be happy to comply with. Deadlock shifted to stand, his hips screaming in pain when he put his weight on them, the right one more so than the left. He snapped his interface cover closed and limped out of Turmoil’s berthroom, not looking back.

…

Perceptor gazed out the window for a while as he finished the energon Deadlock gave him. After that he washed the glasses thoroughly. Having no desire to watch old shows alone, he wandered to the berthroom, sliding over to what had become his side of the berth closest to the window and lying back. He stared up into the night sky dotted with stars, unsure what to do with himself.

He felt so oddly lost without Deadlock here.

Over the last orn, Deadlock had repeated the act of crossing the berth and curling up beside Perceptor a handful of times. He never spoke about what memory files drove him to close the space between them, and he always acted as if it meant nothing when he’d online. Deadlock seemed to be teeming with so many secrets. Things Perceptor wanted to learn more about in order to better understand him.

Perceptor was not a fool, though. His focus on Deadlock, his emotions so twisted up in how this mech treated him, were both simply a result of his current situation. It was so much easier to remain fixated on Deadlock rather than let the dark sadness inside him take over. Memories of his own that he didn’t want to relive or face. The loss was simply to enormous to properly process for him. Especially while living in this confined world.

Rolling to his side, he stared at the empty space beside him. “I wonder where he went?”

Softly sighing, Perceptor knew it was probably another mystery about Deadlock he might never know the answer to. Perceptor offlined his optics, and eventually managed to slip into a light recharge.

A short time later, the sound of the apartment door opening roused him. He dimly lit his optics, listening to the almost clumsy sound of footsteps. Had some else broken into the apartment? It sounded nothing like Deadlock’s even gate.

He silently crawled off the berth and padded to the doorway, peering down the hall. At the end, backlit by the light in the kitchenette area, Deadlock stood, leaning his right side against the wall. He then limped forward a few steps before he looked up and noticed Perceptor. Their gazes met, but it only lasted for a moment.

Deadlock’s red optics quickly shifted focus to the floor as he stilled. “Go back to the berth,” Deadlock said, sounding irritated.

 _What?_ Perceptor thought. Clearly Deadlock was in need of assistance. “No.” He stepped out into the small hallway and as he approched smelled the telltale scent of cycled mech fluid. So that was where he’d been? Interfacing with someone? If that were the case, then why was he limping? When it came to this mech, it seemed there were always more questions than answers.

Deadlock looked at Perceptor and deeply frowned. “Go back.”

He’d actually missed this mech earlier in the evening? “I will not leave you here injured.”

Without waiting for a reply, Perceptor slid his arm around the middle of Deadlock’s back.

Deadlock huffed air from his intakes in frustration. “I don’t need your help.”

“I can see from your handful of steps that your right hip may not be properly seated in the socket,” Perceptor replied.

“You can tell that from watching me walk a few steps?” Deadlock glared at Perceptor.  

“Yes.” Perceptor then reached out to steady Deadlock from the front, but his hand was caught in a vice-like grip micrometers from Deadlock’s abdomen.

Red optics deepened in hue as he gave Perceptor a dark glare. “The hand on the back is _plenty_.”

Nodding, Perceptor helped his injured master limp down the short hallway. In the berthroom, Deadlock tried to veer toward the washrack, but Perceptor stopped him.

“It’s best to let me assess the damages and see if there is anything I can do to alleviate the pain,” Perceptor said.

Deadlock narrowed his optics at Perceptor. “Thought you were a scientist not a medic.”

“Cybertronian bio-mechanics as well as oragnic-mechanics are my specialties,” Perceptor replied.

“What does _that_ mean?” Deadlock asked.

“I may not be a trained medic, but I happen to know more than most field medics,” Perceptor replied. “Let me examine you.”

“I need to clean up first.” Deadlock tried to pull away from Perceptor’s grip.

“Assessing your condition takes priority over the state of your external plating.” Perceptor grabbed a piece of Deadlock’s dented plating, preventing him from moving. “If there are exposed wires or circuitry, washing would only exasperate the problem.”

Deadlock stared at Perceptor, looking unsure. After a moment of consideration, he conceded. “ _Fine_.” They moved toward the berth. “At least get me a wet rag so I can wipe myself down,” Deadlock said as he gingerly sat down on the berth’s edge.

Nodding, Perceptor retrieved a drying cloth from the washrack and wetted it down. He returned and handed Deadlock the requested item. Deadlock’s optics dimmed as he wiped down his front and then his legs, never once looking up at Perceptor. He seemed almost ashamed as he cleaned up the evidence of his coupling.

Deadlock dropped the cloth to the floor and kept his gaze pinned on it. “All right. Look if you want.”

Perceptor turned up the lighting in the room, then moved to squat down in front of Deadlock. He gently touched his master’s right knee. “Move it as far as you feel comfortable.”

The leg shifted outward a little way, and Perceptor leaned in closer to Deadlock, focusing his gaze on the hip joint. With his head essentially between Deadlock’s legs, he expected to smell the scent of heated circuitry from an overload, but there was none. Interfacing but no overload? Odd. Focusing on the task at hand, he could see from the exposed space between Deadlock’s hip and leg that angle of the joint from his upper leg did not match where the socket lie inside his pelvic unit.

“As I suspected, it’s been jarred out of the socket.” Perceptor pushed to stand, then reached down, grabbing hold of each of Deadlock’s legs.

“What are you doing?” Deadlock asked, his optics brightening.

“It needs to be reseated, so lie back,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock deeply frowned, looking as if he were teetering on the edge an angry outburst. He complied, though, shifting and lying back on the berth with Perceptor’s careful assistance.

Perceptor sat himself down beside him, pressing his own hip to the injured one. He twisted and reached out for the far side of his Deadlock’s hips, taking firm hold.

“What the frag are you do—” Deadlock’s question was cut short as Perceptor jerked in a sharp motion on his body, snapping the joint back into alignment. “Fraggit!” he yelled out. “That fragging hurt! Get away from me you aft!” Deadlock half sat up and angrily shoved at Perceptor, who was promptly knocked off the berth and onto the floor for his efforts.

He watched from his new seat as Deadlock sat up, moving his leg and examining it as he winced and mumbled more curses. Perceptor’s spark burned in his chest with a different kind of hurt than the daily one he contended with. This was something akin to rejection. He’d actually been able to use his deep well of knowledge to help Deadlock and been essentially physically assaulted for it. He tried to reign in his emotions that were suddenly spiraling away from him. Tearing his gaze away from the other mech, he stared blankly at the floor in front him as his optics glazed over with coolant. He didn’t want to break down in front of Deadlock…

“It doesn’t hurt like it did before,” Deadlock said, sounding surprised. “You should have warned me. I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

 _Don’t look up_ , Perceptor told himself. _He’ll see the tears_. He stuffed it all down deep inside, gaining a tenuous hold over his emotions.

“You okay?” Deadlock asked.

 _No_ , he thought bitterly. “Fine,” Perceptor replied. He pushed himself up, and picked up the wet cloth, taking it to the washrack and depositing it in the bin to be cleaned. Walking back into the berthroom, he was met with a somewhat unexpected look on Deadlock’s face: guilt. Though, Deadlock said nothing as Perceptor turned the lighting off and rounded the berth to the end, sliding back to lie down beside him.

Deadlock watched Perceptor then did the same, lying back.

Silence wrapped around them. Perceptor gazed longingly out the window at the distant stars, wishing he were anywhere but here. Wishing he wasn’t so weak and emotional. He knew in his processor that it had less to do with Deadlock and was more about his inability to make peace with all that happened to him. Knowing that fact didn’t change how intensely reactive he was to Deadlock’s moods and actions, though.

“Thank you,” Deadlock said, shattering the silence.

Perceptor glanced over at him through the darkness, seeing his face lit by his red optics.

“Sorry I was being an aft. I sort of had a rough night,” Deadlock added.

An apology? “I suppose I should have you warned it might hurt,” Perceptor replied.

A small smile curved Deadlock’s lips. “It fraggin’ hurt all right. But it’s already feeling better.”

“With some recharge, your auto-repair should mend the damages.” Perceptor dimmed his optics, as he felt himself reeled back from the edge of his self-pity and pain by Deadlock’s apology.

“So… bio-mechanics?” Deadlock chuckled. “What exactly _did_ you do before?”

Perceptor softly sighed air from his intakes. His life ‘before’ was distant and so meaningless now. “I engineered whatever was asked of me, but my focus was on anything related to how our bio-mechanics worked.”

“Like mods?” Deadlock asked.

Mods were something Deadlock understood, and it seemed as if he were trying to relate to Perceptor in a real way for the first time since he’d been here. This felt so different than sitting side-by-side watching dull, old programs. “Sometimes.”

Deadlock studied Perceptor’s face. “I think this is most I’ve heard you talk so far.”

“I apologize. I tend to be long-winded,” Perceptor replied.

“Don’t apologize. I like hearing that pretty voice of yours,” Deadlock replied.

Perceptor’s optics brightened, surprised by the compliment. “I don’t think anyone has said that to me before. Most just ignored me when I’d drone on.”

“Guess I’m not ‘most’.” Deadlock then shifted, hissing as he carefully turned himself to his front. Perceptor started to sit up, wanting to assist, but Deadlock settled without needing help. He glanced at Perceptor and half-smiled. “I can’t recharge on my back.”

Relaxing against the berth, Perceptor nodded. “I noticed.”

They gazed at one another in the darkness, somehow sharing, connecting without words. Deadlock’s gruff distance had dissipated, revealing someone beneath that Perceptor found he genuinely liked.

“Hey Perceptor, thanks, again,” Deadlock said, his optics dimming.

“Of course,” Perceptor replied. “Good night.”

Deadlock’s optics flickered off. “’Night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this didn’t offend or stray from reality too much. After Deadlock’s encounter, I felt he’d been emotionally worn to the point that he allowed his guard down for Perceptor. And of course, this is all colored by how Perceptor wants to see things.


	4. Finding Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " Whose side am I on? Whose side am I... ?  
> Whose side am I on? Whose side am I... ?
> 
> And the fever began to spread  
> From my heart down to my legs  
> But the room was so quiet  
> Oh..."
> 
> -'Breath of Life' by Florence + the Machine

After the previous evening, Deadlock knew Turmoil would want retribution. If he'd avoided coming here, Turmoil would have shown up at his apartment. Last thing he wanted was to expose Perceptor to this sadistic aft. Besides, by coming to him, Deadlock hoped to mitigate some of Turmoil's anger.  
  
Deadlock turned his wrists in the cuffs. His arms were spread wide and locked in place against the wall of Turmoil's quarters. His pedes just reached the floor from his hung position, allowing him to take some pressure off his upper limbs. Small blackened burn marks from the electric two-pronged prod Turmoil had been using covered his body.  
  
Turmoil paced in front of Deadlock, head tilting as his visored gaze drew up and down Deadlock's frame, no doubt admiring his work.  
  
"As always, you came back to me," Turmoil said as he stopped directly in front of Deadlock. His thick black fingers' grip on the handle of the electric prod tightened. "Admit it. You need me."  
  
Deadlock narrowed his optics. His spark raged with anger inside his chest, forcing words to lips. "No. Not really--" He bit back the urge to elaborate, gritting his dentia.  
  
Turmoil laughed, a dark sinister sound that emitted from deep inside his broad chest. "Then why are you here? Surely you knew punishment would be in order for your behavior yesterday."  
  
"'Cause I know you." Deadlock heaved a thick sigh of air through his intakes. "If I didn't show up, you'd come looking for me."  
  
Turmoil chuckled. "True. You belong to me, after all."  
  
Deadlock couldn't control himself, snarling in response.  
  
"Seems that while I was away, you've forgotten that fact." Turmoil shoved the prod dead center into Deadlock's chest.  
  
Pain flared over his sensory net. He jerked against the restraints, optics flickering as he cried out in pain. Once Turmoil finally pulled it back, Deadlock's vents were left sputtering as his whole frame trembled from the ebbing pain.  
  
Turmoil then stepped in close, hands gliding over the curves of Deadlock's chest and hips. "You are by far the prettiest prize I've taken."  
  
He wanted to purge his tank, unsure if it was from his pain tolerances being pushed past their max levels or the disgusting way Turmoil spoke to him.  
  
He shouldn't have come here. Deadlock knew it would be bad, but this was much harder to withstand than he remembered. While trapped on the ship as part of Turmoil's crew, he'd sort of grown used to this abuse. Grown numb to it. Thanks to his time and space away, he'd gotten weaker. Unable to take the abuse like before.  
  
"Now for the true fun." Turmoil set his prod on the floor beside him, and reached up, sliding open Deadlock's interface cover. His thick black fingers sunk inside Deadlock's valve. Turmoil bent forward, so they were almost face to face. His visor darkening in hue. "As a reward for coming to me--" Thick fingers scissored inside Deadlock's valve then pressed deep. "--you're allowed to overload."  
  
Like he was going to be able to do that, staring at his fragger's ugly face. "I'll pass."  
  
Turmoil's visor brightened. "Oh really?"  
  
Deadlock nodded.  
  
Thick, rough fingers pressed into a set of sensor nodes near his valve's roof, sending a sensation zinging inside Deadlock. It was too sharp to be pleasure but he couldn't help his body's reaction, slamming back against the wall.  
  
"You'll do what I want. You always do what I want. And right now, I want to see your lovely body in the throes of an overload." Turmoil twisted his fingers inside, sliding against other sensor nodes.  
  
Offlining his optics, Deadlock knew he'd never be able to actually overload. He was going to have to fake it... That meant going as emotionally numb as possible. He silently slipped into the back of his mind, and tried to detach himself from what was happening. Readying himself to pretend he was doing what Turmoil wanted.  
  
 _Primus, why did I come here?_ For some misplaced desire to protect his own slave back in his apartment? Or was Turmoil right? There was some messed up part of him that needed this punishment. Penance to make up for failing Gasket, maybe.  
  
 _When did everything get so twisted up and confusing?_  
  
...  
  
Perceptor didn't like this particular change in routine. Deadlock had once again returned from his shift, cleaned up, handed him a serving of energon and left. Without any explanation as to where he was headed, and saying that he'd be back 'very late'.  
  
It was lonely enough trapped in this apartment, unable to do anything other than clean, watch boring old programs, or sadly stare out the window at the world below. For Perceptor, Deadlock was all he really had at this point. Sighing air in an irritated hiss, he squirmed in the recliner, changing his position to shift his legs the other way. He'd decided the moment the door snapped shut behind Deadlock, that he wasn't moving from his seat at the window until his master returned.  
  
He found he was both angry at being left alone and also concerned after witnessing Deadlock's condition the evening before. It was a partly selfish concern, though. If something dire did happen to Deadlock, then what would become of him? That thought made him uneasy with a thick fear of such an overwhelming unknown. At least here, he knew the parameters of his existence. The edges of his new, smaller world.    
  
Leaning back against the recliner he focused his gaze on the night life below, trying to distract himself from worrisome thoughts. The view of the energon bar across the street offered an array of brightly colored lights and mechs who milled around in a small tangled hoard, drinking and laughing as if everything was how it had been eons ago. Before the war took 'normal' away. Perceptor frowned at the sight.  
  
Suddenly, the door to the apartment swished open. Perceptor turned in his seat, craning to see around the back of the recliner. Deadlock limped inside, his gaze immediately drawn to Perceptor.  
  
"Why aren't you recharging?" Deadlock asked, more confused sounding than upset.  
  
Perceptor slid off the recliner and cautiously approached. "Waiting for your return." He glanced down at Deadlock's body, noticing small burn marks marring his plating. They were... _familiar_ looking. In fact, several of Perceptor's healed over scars had been created by what was probably the same instrument: an electrified prod. Though, by the looks of the marks on Deadlock, it hadn't been set as high as the one used on him back on Swindle's compound.  
  
"You didn't need to wait up," Deadlock said in a sullen tone.  
  
Tearing his gaze from the marks, he looked into Deadlock's red optics. "Let me look over your injuries."  
  
Deadlock shook his head adamantly. "I just want to clean up." He then grimaced. "And I don't want you seeing me like this."  
  
"I've seen all manner of things in my time. I'm hardly offended by the evidence of interfacing. More to the point, I'd like to offer my care and knowledge regarding your physical injuries," Perceptor replied. _And to be sure whoever is doing this to you isn't escalating the violence,_ he mentally added.  
  
Deadlock's optics dimmed, as a strange look crossed his face. It was a cross between disbelief and appreciation. "Okay..." He then sighed air from his intakes and limped past Perceptor toward the berthroom.  
  
Walking in, Perceptor turned the lighting up and cautiously approached Deadlock. He paused a moment to take in the overall view of the damages. Leaning in close, he inspected the various burn marks, lightly touching around them to see if Deadlock reacted or commented on pain. Most of the burns were superficial, save the one at the center of his chest. Perceptor gently touched the area around it, causing Deadlock to flinch.  
  
"That one hurts," Deadlock said, his voice low and foreboding. "Don't touch it."  
  
Perceptor visually inspected it, seeing the plating had warped from the heat. It would scar, like the ones that pitted his own frame. "You will need this tended to, but by a medic with a welder. The charred piece will scar if left as it is." His gaze then caught sight of the cycled mech fluid he could already smell. It was splashed in arched shape up Deadlock's front.  
  
"I'll get Tremor to come by and fix it." Deadlock cupped his hand over it, covering the burn. "Can I get cleaned up now, _doc_?"  
  
Perceptor glanced up, surprised at the half smile and amused look on Deadlock's face. "I am not actually a medic."  
  
Deadlock shook his head. "I was teasing."  
  
"Oh." Perceptor straightened himself, standing his full height. "No injuries that need immediate attention, and none I can fix for you."  
  
"'Kay. Gonna wash up." Deadlock turned and sauntered into the washrack, leaving the door partway open.  
  
Perceptor walked over to the berth and slid to his side, lying back. It was late, and he could feel just how tired he truly was now that he was lying down. The soft echo of the water from Deadlock's washing was a soothing sound, and he relaxed further, tension leaving his joints. His mind then began to wander. Thoughts swirled mostly around Deadlock. He was curious who was harming him, and confused as to why he was letting himself be harmed. It made no logical sense to Perceptor. What would be the purpose of it?  
  
The rush of water stopped, leaving only the gentle dripping sounds of Deadlock drying himself off. Perceptor's thoughts started to become scattered and less coherent as his body's need for rest took over, and his mind finally gave up its attempts to figure out the puzzle that was Deadlock. Mysteries would have to wait to be pondered another time. For now he knew Deadlock was in no physical danger and he'd have to settle for that small piece of knowledge. He offlined his optics and quickly slipped offline.  
  
...  
  
 _The sound of explosions and weaponry were deafening. Perceptor crouched down behind what was left of a wall, his medical kit dumped out over the broken, uneven ground. He worked quickly to mend a gash in Cliffjumper’s plating. A task made more complicated each time his patient would move._  
  
 _“I can’t perform a proper fast weld if you refuse to remain still,” Perceptor shouted over the cacophony._  
  
 _“Slag it! Just forget it! We’re going to die here anyway,” Cliffjumper said as he shoved Perceptor’s handheld welder away and got to his feet._  
  
 _“Wait!” Perceptor’s one word plea was lost in the sound of a large-scale explosion. Pieces of shrapnel rained down over them._  
  
 _Cliffjumper was undeterred, and lifted his oversized cannon up onto his shoulder. Energon and mech fluid seeped from the half-mended wound in his thigh. In an instant, he disappeared around the broken wall._  
  
 _Perceptor scrambled to stand, peering out at the battlefield. The Autobots were holding a line just in front of his makeshift medical treatment area, but in the distance he saw Optimus and Megatron fighting one another hand to hand._  
  
 _A quick survey of those fighting, and Perceptor knew his attempts to tend to their wounds were futile. Prowl's doorwings were barely clinging to his back, Ironhide was bleeding energon and mech fluid from various wounds all over his body, not a one of them was left unscathed from the intense fire fight._  
  
 _Then inexplicably everything grew quieter._  
  
 _Curious, Perceptor ventured from his spot joining the Autobots at the front line, noting they’d all stopped firing. That’s when he saw what they were all staring at. Megatron was walking up to them, carrying Optimus in his arms._  
  
 _The line of fighters all drew and aimed at Megatron as he approached._  
  
 _“Put Optimus Prime down at once!” Prowl shouted._  
  
 _“Oh, but of course,” Megatron replied, a wry grin curling his lips as he deposited Optimus on the ground with a thud. “I certainly wanted you all to have a clear view.”_  
  
 _Megatron’s words sent a chill down Perceptor's spinal strut._ Clear view Of what? _he wondered._  
  
 _Perceptor quickly assessed Optimus’ injuries from where he stood. Their leader’s left arm had been ripped clean off, he had a misaligned leg rotor that caused his leg to lay at an odd angle, and several snapped neck cables. There were probably extensive internal injuries Perceptor couldn’t see, too. Optimus groaned and his head lolled to one side. He was barely clinging to life._  
  
 _Then, in one horrible moment, they all bore witness to the end of their millennia long war._  
  
 _Megatron slammed his fists into Optimus’ body, tearing off the two halves of his chest plate, and then pulling the matrix from his body. As if that weren’t enough, Megatron then reached down and squeezed Optimus’ spark chamber, snuffing out the light that was reflecting from inside his exposed chest. Blue optics turned black, and Optimus’ lifeless frame lost all tension._  
  
 _Megatron glanced up at the line of horrified Autobots. “Now that you no longer have a Prime to follow, this war is over. Run if you like, but know there is no escape. You will all make very nice pets for my loyal army.”_  
  
 _The Autobot line rippled backward. Perceptor pulled his pistol from subspace and stared at it, his spark sinking in his chest as he realized just how useless it really was, especially in his hands._  
  
 _“All non-warriors fall back!” Prowl shouted._  
  
 _Perceptor looked up, seeing that he was the only one that even came close to fitting that description. Confused, he didn’t move. His gaze lifted to Optimus’ lifeless shell and he stood there, his mind reeling at the realization that their Prime was_ dead _. What in the name of Primus would they do now?_  
  
 _“Percy! Go!!” Jazz shouted as he shoved Perceptor._  
  
 _Shifting his gaze he watched mechs like Ironhide, Kup, and Springer push forward and fire on Megatron._  
  
 _Jazz pulled on Perceptor. “Stop standing there!_ Move! _”_  
  
 _He staggered back a few steps, half following Jazz and a few others like Trailbreaker and Mirage when he heard a distant, roaring sound. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the entire Decepticon army moving like a wave about to crest over top of them._  
  
 _That’s when fear finally hit him._  
  
 _Perceptor turned and_ ran _. Blindly moving away from the incoming enemy, his spark pulsed with desperate fear. In organics, it was called a ‘fight or flight’ response. He was running like the weakling he knew deep down he truly was._  
  
 _He heard shouts, but honestly didn’t care whether it was friendly or not and didn’t stop his panicked flee. Nearly tripping on debris, he’d stagger but didn’t slow. Suddenly a heated pain flared over his sensory net and he fell front-first to the ground._  
  
 _Pinpointing the epicenter of pain, he twisted to his side and saw his thigh was shot through. He stared at the gaping wound, unable to comprehend it. Unable to accept it. He had to get away. He had to escape._  
  
 _“One’s over here!”_  
  
 _“Knock him out. They’re all going on Swindle’s transport! Megatron’s orders!”_  
  
 _Perceptor turned his gaze toward the shouting voices. Two Decepticons moved in, flanking him. As they approached, he felt his fear intensify. His spark pulsed so hard in his chest, it felt like it might burst free. Red optics practically bore holes in his plating as they each reached down. The hands that moved over his plating to grab him were rough and he instinctually flailed in a last-ditch effort to escape._  
  
 _“Hold still!” One of the Decepticons shoved an electrified two-pronged object at him and he cried out as pain and an electrical overload ripped through his body._  
  
…  
  
“Perceptor!”  
  
Jolting online, Perceptor’s field of vision was filled with a Decepticon’s face. He jerked, shoving at him, completely disoriented. The mech over him remained calm, however, grasping his wrists firmly and waiting for him to come back to reality.  
  
His systems were straining and running fast. Panic and fear were rolling through his entire frame.  
  
“Perceptor…” Deadlock repeated, a cool calmness in his voice. “You’re safe.”  
  
Staring into his red optics, Perceptor tried to gain control over his wildly pulsing spark and hitching ventilations. That’s right. This was his reality now, living with this Decepticon. Living with Deadlock. That scene was just a memory file.  
  
“That was some recharge feedback. You okay?” Deadlock asked, his grip on Perceptor’s wrists loosening.  
  
“I’m fine,” Perceptor replied, his voice still strained from the stress of reliving what had happened. Pieces from his memory file flitted through his mind: Optimus’ limp, dead body, Megatron’s snarling face, Cliffjumper’s words about dying. A pain he’d mostly kept pinned inside pushed out through the cracks in his psyche, finally shattering it. Tears polled on his optics as a tight feeling filled his chest.  
  
Deadlock let go and sat back on his heels on the berth. He watched Perceptor, his optics dimming. “You don’t look fine.” He reached out, letting his black fingers gently sweep over Perceptor’s upper arm as if to comfort.  
  
There was no comfort to be had, though, only pain, hot and sharp ripping through him. Perceptor pushed himself to sit up, tears escaping, despite his best efforts. He didn’t want Deadlock to see him like this. He scooted off the berth, shakily getting to his feet.  
  
“Perceptor?” Deadlock asked as he slid to the edge of the berth, swinging his own legs off.  
  
Perceptor couldn’t bring himself to look that red opticked face, and quickly made a b-line for the wash rack. He could hear Deadlock’s heavy steps behind him, but slid the door shut before his master could follow him inside. Sinking down the floor, he bent over with his face in his hands, finally letting go. Bawling.  
  
As his whole body convulsed with each painful sob, he allowed himself to grieve. He let his memories flow, instead of trying to push them away. Faces he’d never see again, his friends, his life, it was all gone. He’d never have any of it back. This planet would never be his true home again.  
  
The jingle of the loop linked to his collar caught his attention. He reached up, grasping it in his hands, while also fully grasping the implications it carried.  
  
He’d never know _freedom_ again.  
  
…  
  
Deadlock sat on the berth staring at the waskrack door for a while, but eventually got up and settled down on the floor beside the door. He was already feeling stressed about Turmoil. Having Perceptor suddenly suffer a mental breakdown was not really something he wanted to add to his list of current problems.  
  
If only there was a way to free himself from the stranglehold Turmoil held on his life. All he could do was hold his head down and take the abuse until he left again, though. It sickened him that he lacked the ability to do anything else. If anything, he was much a slave to Turmoil as Perceptor was to him. That thought made his chest feel heavy. His spark ached with guilt about having bought another mech. Even if his intentions had been _good_ , it still didn’t make it _right_.  
  
Sighing air from his intakes, he frowned and glanced at the closed wash rack door. He'd been pretty surprised to find Perceptor waiting for him last night. And yet, it had been... nice. Nice to be missed. Nice to be looked after. No judgement in Perceptor's face, only concern as he gently inspected each burn on his body.  
  
Glancing down at his frame, he noticed the burn marks were already starting to fade, except the one at the center of his chest. He then rubbed the cover to his interface array. Unfortunately, his valve still hurt.    
  
“I hate that fragger,” Deadlock mumbled to himself, anger bubbling up inside him.  
  
The door to the washrack slid open. Deadlock looked up at Perceptor as he stepped into the berth room. His Autobot looked ragged. His face stained with mostly dried coolant tears, his posture limp, and a distant almost vacant look in his optics.  
  
Deadlock quickly got to his feet and took hold of Perceptor’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get some energon in you.”  
  
Perceptor’s blue optics squinted, looking confused. “Don’t you have your shift to attend?”  
  
“Every fifth day off.,” Deadlock replied. He gently tugged Perceptor.  
  
Perceptor let air vent from intakes in a soft hiss, his optics losing focus as his gaze lowered to the floor. “I do not want any.” He moved toward the berth, and Deadlock let Perceptor’s arm slip from his grasp. He stood there and watched as Perceptor crawled back onto the berth and curled up with his back to the room. His back to Deadlock.  
  
This was not good.  
  
He walked over and sat on the berth’s edge, unsure what to do. He was bad at comfort. Bad and knowing what to say. How to act. “Wanna talk?” he asked lamely.  
  
“No,” Perceptor replied in a tired voice.  
  
“Should I be worried?” Deadlock asked.  
  
No reply. Perceptor just lay there, unmoving. Whatever memory he’d relived, it must have been a doozy. Deadlock had nowhere to be for the moment, so he stretched out to lie on the berth next to Perceptor. Silence was heavy and thick around them.  
  
He stared at Perceptor’s red-colored back, curved from his balled up position. While overall he had a boxy shape, Perceptor was still fairly attractive. He had some nice lines to his frame. Deadlock’s favorite part remained his voice, though. Melodic and pretty. Unlike anything Deadlock had ever heard before. Nothing about him was rough or sharp. His thoughts then shifted, like the rust sea’s surface in the winds, bringing him back to the large, broad mech who laid claim to him. Turmoil's rough hands, biting words, violent temper. Deadlock frowned, hating himself for not being strong enough to break away. Hating himself for trapping this poor, emotionally struggling mech inside his apartment. They were both victims of some pretty fragged up circumstances.  
  
Rolling to his front, Deadlock offlined his optics. He could feel his autorepair was working hard, and decided a little extra rest couldn't hurt. Besides, he was tired of thinking about this complicated mess of a life he led. Why couldn't things ever be simple? Like on those old shows he watched? The bad guy was always caught, and everything always worked out... But then, in his case, he wondered if he was 'bad guy'.  
  
…  
  
Perceptor onlined, feeling groggy from his impromptu recharge, and glanced down at the white forearm and blank-fingered hand curled around his middle. Deadlock's frame was pressed against Perceptor's back. The closest Deadlock had gotten when he'd unconsciously cross the berth was curled against his side, occasionally slinging his arm over his chest. But Perceptor tended to recharge on his back. This was a far more an intimate position to be in. The type of embrace lovers would recharge in. A shiver of desire ran through him at that thought, quickly followed by shame for even thinking it.  
  
With his spark still achy from the implosion of emotions earlier, he found himself caught between enjoying the warmth and feeling guilty that he enjoyed it. Deadlock was his only social interaction, as awkward as it often was. Perceptor had to admit, he liked seeing Deadlock's rough edges soften a little. And Deadlock _had_ tried in his own clumsy way to take care of Perceptor once he finally emerged from the washrack earlier.  
  
The light from the midday spilled in the window, and Perceptor reached down, curiously tracing his fingers over Deadlock's, which then curled and grasped at his abdomen.  
  
"Gask..." Deadlock murmured and then gave Perceptor a small squeeze.  
  
So he was having his own memory feedback. It wasn't right to enjoy this physical attention, seeing as it was clearly intended for someone else. For what it was worth, it had at least taken a tiny edge off his spark's pain.  
  
Deadlock's arm slid up to hold Perceptor in a firm embrace as he felt him shift and stretch against his back. A small moan escaped his master's vocalizer as he pressed his face against Perceptor's neck and collar. That was when Deadlock's movement suddenly stilled.  
  
"Perceptor," Deadlock said in a low voice, as if realizing this was not who he'd expected to wake to.  
  
The arm started to slide away, and for reasons Perceptor couldn't fully understand or admit to, he grabbed hold and hugged it to his chest.  
  
A long silence fell. It seemed to stretch on without end, but Perceptor didn't want to let go. He wanted comfort. He wanted something to distract him from his pain... He _wanted_ Deadlock. He dimmed his optics, ashamed he even felt any thread of arousal at all. It was wrong. But he couldn't help himself. A physical distraction from his spark's pain was a natural desire to have. Something he'd witnessed his comrades participate in after terrible battles. Jazz called it 'comfort 'facing'. Not that he’d ever participated. But at the moment, it almost felt like all his pent up angst and pain needed an outlet; any outlet other than sobbing his spark out.    
  
"You deserve better," Deadlock whispered against his neck.  
  
"All I have is my pain," Perceptor replied. "I'm so tired of being trapped with it."  
  
More silence. More embarrassment at how pathetically he was behaving. Afterall, Deadlock had been through quite a bit of physical trauma in the last couple of days. He had no right to request this of him. Deadlock then softly nuzzled his neck above the collar. The affection of it touching at something more than just his physical lust. It seemed to reach all the way to his spark. His fingers tightly wrapped around Deadlock's wrist in his grasp.  
  
A soft sigh of air from Deadlock's intakes blew over Perceptor's shoulders. "Is this what you really want?" he asked, his voice cool and calm.  
  
Without hesitation he replied out loud. "Yes. I want to feel anything other than pain... _please_." Had he really just admitted that to Deadlock?  
  
"I sort of need my arm back, then," Deadlock replied, an edge of teasing in his voice.  
  
Reluctantly, Perceptor let go. Desire, guilt and insecurity filling him helm to pede. Deadlock let his hand slowly trail down his front, while at the same time he began to gently mouth Perceptor's shoulder. No one had touched him like this in so long, even the most basic affection being lavished on him caused his core temperature to jump and his entire frame to tremble.  
  
Deadlock paused his movements. "How long has it been?" he asked, his voice soft and soothing-sounding.  
  
Perceptor shook his head and sadly smiled, despite knowing Deadlock couldn't see him. "Forever."  
  
A small chuckle was Deadlock's reply. Perceptor felt Deadlock's glossa slide along the ridge of his shoulder as his hand splayed over Perceptor's heated abdomen plate.  
  
Suddenly, it occurred to him he should be reciprocating in some way, though, with Deadlock at his back, he had no idea what he could do. He stiffened a little, his desire fading as he tried to devise a way to move into a better position.  
  
Deadlock seemed to sense his change in demeanor, and softly sighed. "Stop thinking."  
  
Guilt filled him at the idea of not responding in kind. "But you surely--"  
  
"Stop," Deadlock interrupted in a firm voice.  
  
Deadlock's hand slid down, grabbing hold of Perceptor's thigh and pulling it upward so he could hook his own leg between and part them.  
  
Perceptor gave in, and simply watched. Black fingers deftly slid open his interface cover in a practiced-looking move. Heat flushed his whole body, especially his face plates, as those fingers slowly explored the exposed interface array. Deadlock lightly skimmed over his erect spike and moved down to circle the rim of his valve. Perceptor couldn't help the quiver of anticipation his whole frame made.  
  
"Not gonna hurt you," Deadlock whispered.  
  
"I know that," Perceptor whispered back.  
  
He felt Deadlock's lips against his back quirk, probably into a smile.  
  
Two of Deadlock's fingers slipped inside his valve and Perceptor sharply gasped, his own hands curling against the berth. It had been so long since anyone had touched him. His valve clenched and spasmed around the warm fingers that were soon sliding in and out of his slippery, barely used valve. He kept his gaze pinned on Deadlock's forearm arm and twisting wrist as he manipulated his fingers inside Perceptor. Pleasure cut through the haze of his pain, like a fire spreading inside him. Groaning, he felt his joints tense. He was already going to overload, he could feel it. How sad was it that he couldn't last more than a minute or two? His valve tightened around those wonderful probing fingers and he gave in, arching against Deadlock behind him, his vocalizer whining as a delightful overload ripped through him. He lay there in the aftermath pressed against Deadlock, trembling and feeling somewhat embarrassed at how easily he'd come.  
  
Deadlock pulled his fingers free and Perceptor figured that was the end of it. Still, it had been more than he'd had in eons. He then felt Deadlock shifting, and then heard a soft click. What was he--?    
  
A spike slid against his aft.  
  
It seemed they were not done. Heat rippled through Perceptor, his body instantly reacting with renewed anticipation. Deadlock pressed his lips to Perceptor's back, then mouthed his plating for a moment, while slowly rubbing his spike against his aft. "Ready?" he asked, his voice gritty with desire.  
  
"Yes," Perceptor replied in a breathy voice.  
  
The head of the spike pressed against his valve opening. Perceptor reached down, helping to guide it, feeling the unusual shapes along its surface as slid past his fingers. Any curiosity piqued by touching it slipped away the moment it fully pushed inside. His optics flared and he whimpered, as Deadlock's spike seated itself inside him. The mesh walls of his valve fluttered around it, as if curious about the unusual visitor.  
  
"Tight," Deadlock murmured.  
  
"Non use will do that," Perceptor replied, vaguely embarrassed.  
  
Deadlock's hand took a firm hold of Perceptor's hip and he very gently began to rock himself, only barely moving his spike inside. Even with that minimum movement, Perceptor whined with unrestrained want as practically every sensor node lining the mesh walls sent pleasure singing through his body.  
  
The pace and movement picked up, Deadlock's hot spike slipping in deeper with each thrust as Perceptor's valve grew accustomed to it's shape. His fingers clawed at the berth and he writhed against Deadlock, pain long forgotten and lost in a sea of lust and need. He didn't remember interfacing feeling this amazing.  
  
Heat and unbridled arousal rose up inside Perceptor, moving in ever intensifying waves from his now slick and sensitized valve's walls. Deadlock's thrusts grew more insistent, more powerful. He felt like he was melting into the berth, the world fluid and smooth around him. The spike started to reach deep enough to tap his valve roof, touching at sensors he had no idea even lie within him. It was all too much, and he couldn't hold on another moment.  
  
His valve spasmed and clenched tight around Deadlock's spike, not wanting let go. He cried out, his body jerking against the heated frame behind him in the throes of the most intense overload he'd ever experienced. He felt the spike shift, then send a stream of hot cycled mech fluid flooding his valve's vault. The fluid tingled inside him, sending small electrical pulses dancing over the mesh walls and around the hot spike still embedded in him, prolonging the feeling of the overload. Perceptor groaned, floating on the lovely euphoria that permeated his entire being. The sensation ebbed sooner than he wanted it to, though, and he eventually wilted against Deadlock, feeling utterly spent.  
  
Deadlock's hand on Perceptor's hip slid up his body, and crossed over Perceptor's chest, giving a small, affectionate squeeze as he shifted his hips, spike slipping free. Perceptor whined a little at the feeling of loss and Deadlock gently nuzzled his neck in response. This aftermath of affection was unexpected, but Perceptor decided to enjoy it, not question it.  
  
Wrong or right blurred in his mind as he lay there, enjoying the embrace of the mech that had paid to own him. The consequences and possible shift in his place here with Deadlock was far too much for him to even begin to think about right now. He just wanted to relish this moment, for as long as Deadlock would allow it.


	5. Perceptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You are the night-time fear  
> You are the morning when it's clear  
> When it's over your start
> 
> You're my head  
> You're my heart”
> 
> ‘No light, No light’ by Florence + The Machine

The lines from the taller building’s shadows slowly moved across the berth, their pointed tops making contact with Perceptor’s legs. They’d been lying together in a silent embrace for some time. Perceptor didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to let go of this moment. Just exist in it. Enjoy it. Deadlock’s arm across his chest, his warm frame against his back, the slowly drying evidence of what they’d done between his thighs…

The front door whooshed open. “Hello?”

“Tremor…” Deadlock whispered against Perceptor’s neck. “Forgot I commed him earlier.”

“You here?” Tremorwave called out. “Where ya at, Deadlock?”

Deadlock shifted behind Perceptor, his arm slipping down his chest as he rolled partly away from him. “Be right there!”

Moment over.

Perceptor moved, turning in Deadlock’s half embrace to lie on his back, and their gazes finally met. Deadlock’s red optics softened in hue as he flattened his hand over Perceptor’s middle.

“I gotta go out there,” Deadlock quietly said.

Perceptor nodded.

Deadlock pulled away and sat up, then reached down and casually snapped his interface cover closed. It was only a glimpse, but Perceptor saw Deadlock’s spike was not the normal ridged shape he was familiar with. It was decorated in a pattern. _How odd_ … Perceptor thought.

Deadlock got to his feet and then glanced down at Perceptor. “You’re okay, right? I mean, I…uh…” A look of guilt swept over his face.

“I’m fine. I promise,” Perceptor replied.

With a nod, Deadlock reluctantly turned and left the berthroom. Perceptor sat up and listened to the friends greet one another in the living area. He heaved a sigh of air through his intakes, then slid off the berth and wandered into the wash rack to rinse off.

Standing under the warm spray, Perceptor felt his body sag with exhaustion. It wasn’t for lack of recharge, though. His whole being just felt so _tired_ , even his spark. Tired of this apartment, tired of the loneliness. He dimmed his optics, wishing he could rewind back to lying in the berth with Deadlock. It had been comforting, warm, safe feeling. Sensations he once took for granted, but were in such short supply now.

Perceptor pushed a wet cloth between his thighs, cleaning away what they’d done. Now that the spell of the moment was broken, how would things be between them? The same as before? Somewhat awkward but amicable? Or would Deadlock see him differently now? And if he did, as what exactly? More questions than answers as usual it seemed.

Perceptor hung the cloth up, finished rinsing, and then turned the water flow off. He dried his plating, pitted with scars and now dulling after his long stay here. The coating of wax he'd been given at Swindle's compound had long since lost its luster and washed away.

He wandered out of the washrack toward the living area. He paused at the end of the short hallway and peered out across the room, silently watching as Tremorwave used a hand held welder and dent removal tool on Deadlock’s chest. The medic was sitting on the short table in front of Deadlock’s favorite recliner and had apparently emptied the contents of his medical kit beside him in a small, messy pile. Deadlock sat perfectly still in his chair, letting Tremorwave tend the injury.

“You’ve certainly been in worse shape. I actually figured you’d have called me after the first night,” Tremorwave said as he worked. "Turmoil in a better mood after having not seen you?"

 _Tremorwave is so chatty_ , Perceptor thought.

“Didn’t need you. Perceptor fixed me up,” Deadlock replied, frowning.

“Perceptor? Thought he was a scientist,” Tremorwave replied. He turned off the welder and then leaned close in to inspect the repair.

“He said he’s a…bio-something scientist,” Deadlock replied.

“Bio-mechanic?” Tremorwave sat back his golden optics sharply focused on Deadlock.

“Yeah, I think that’s what he said,” Deadlock replied.

“Hm. _Interesting_. Speaking of Perceptor—” Tremorwave’s gaze shifted toward where Perceptor stood, half hidden behind the wall. “Hey, _there_ he is! How are ya? Get your aft out here.”

Perceptor glanced at Deadlock, but Tremorwave got up, blocking his view.

“Let me get a look at you,” Tremorwave said, grinning as he approached.

Perceptor took a step out into the living area, feeling a sudden rise of anxiety flutter through him. He’d not spoken to anyone other than Deadlock in so long.

Deadlock followed closely behind his friend, his gaze pinned on Tremorwave.

“Let me see that shoulder,” Tremorwave said as he walked up and reached out to touch Perceptor.

Perceptor tensed and dimmed his optics, finding Tremorwave’s forward manner overwhelming. He didn’t want to be seen as rude, though, and forced himself to remain still despite his unease. Before the medic’s white fingers made contact, Deadlock snatched Tremorwave’s hand away.

“Oww! What the frag!” Tremorwave’s smile flipped to a sour-looking frown directed at Deadlock.

“Ever heard of asking before putting your hands all over someone?” Deadlock’s voice was dark and low.

They stared at one another for a tense moment, then Tremorwave huffed air from his intakes with a hiss. “Sorry, yeeesh!”

Deadlock let go, but continued to give Tremorwave a disapproving glare.

Rubbing at his wrist, Tremorwave looked at Perceptor and sheepishly smiled. “ _May_ I look at your shoulder?”

Perceptor slowly nodded. He was a little surprised by Deadlock’s sudden protective action.

The medic leaned in close to Perceptor and lightly fingered the severed mounts. “Any pain?”

“No,” Perceptor replied. In truth, he’d gotten used to no longer feeling the weight of his missing appendage, which was sort of a sad realization.

Tremorwave then shifted his attention to Perceptor’s face. The golden hues of his optics seemed to shimmer as he carefully examined Perceptor. “Optics are light in hue. You getting enough fuel?”

“Yes,” Perceptor lied. One serving was enough for survival, but two servings were optimal. He’d only have what Deadlock gave him each day.

“When were you last outside the apartment?” Tremorwave asked.

“When I saw you for repairs,” Perceptor replied.

“What!” With a look of anger, Tremorwave swung his attention to Deadlock. “You can’t keep him cooped up in here like that!”

“He’s safest here,” Deadlock replied.

Tremorwave pushed a pointed finger into Deadlock’s chest above the fresh repair. “Listen, you can’t keep another mech locked up in your apartment. It’s _cruel_.”

“He’s _safer_ in here. I’m _protecting_ him.” Deadlock narrowed his optics and gritted his dentia.

Protecting? Perceptor found Deadlock’s use of that word peculiar and yet reassuring at the same time.

“Give me all the dirty looks you want, I’m not scared of you, so may as well knock it off.” Tremorwave then smirked at Deadlock, a strangely dark expression for his otherwise bright demeanor. “How would _you_ feel locked up in this place for days on end? Don’t be that aft that treats their Autobot like a pet. That’s not why you saved him.”

Deflating at Tremorwave’s words, Deadlock dimmed his optics and frowned.

“You know I’m right,” Tremorwave said as leaned back and folded his arms over his chest.

Deadlock grunted in reply.

“Why not take him down the surplus warehouses. They don’t close for another couple hours. A nice walk down there would do you both some good.” Tremorwave looked around the small apartment. “Bet he’s got better taste then you do when it comes to decorating, too. Maybe he can find something nice to put up to distract from that stupidly huge vid screen you put up.”

Deadlock gave Perceptor a side-glance and shook his head. His anger gone, replaced by a look of amusement. “I have some pretty bad taste in friends.”

Tremorwave then play punched Deadlock in the shoulder. “Shut the frag up.”

Perceptor felt like a third wheel. It was a strangely familiar and almost comforting sensation to witness friends bantering, even if the topic was his lack of freedom. It reminded him of watching Ratchet and Wheeljack argue over how to best approach a repair. Of course, that thought made his spark achy for more reasons that he wanted to think about and he reflexively pushed those memories down deep, burying them in his mind.

“Well, I’m gonna head out,” Tremorwave said as he spun on his heel and returned to the small table. He scooped up his supplies and deposited them in his medical toolbox, then turned around and grinned at Perceptor. “Keep this aft in line for me, okay?”

Perceptor stared at him, unsure how he had any power over Deadlock what so ever.

Tremorwave laughed. “I’m sure I’ll see you later, Deadlock.”

Deadlock nodded at him, and Tremorwave plucked up his case in one hand and quickly left, waving as the door whooshed shut behind him.

They seemed like such unlikely friends to Perceptor. Opposites, even. He wondered how they’d ever met in the first place.

Deadlock walked past Perceptor and paused at the door. “Let’s go.”

“Now?” Perceptor asked, surprised.

“Yeah. Now.” Deadlock frowned. “Unless you’d rather stay here.”

Perceptor shook his head and joined Deadlock near the door. He glanced at the table near to the doorway where his lead lay. He reached out and picked it up, fiddling with the latch to open it so he could attach it to his collar.

Deadlock practically growled as he snatched the lead from Perceptor and threw it with force back onto the table.

Shocked, Perceptor stared at him with wide optics. He was unsure if he should be frightened or not.  

Deadlock’s dark look softened a little. “You don’t need that thing. Just stay close to me.”

“…But from my observations most all Autobots are kept on their leads in public,” Perceptor replied.

“Trust me, no one will mess with you as long as you stay close to me,” Deadlock replied, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I have a reputation that precedes me.”

Perceptor wasn’t sure if Deadlock having a reputation he was unaware of was a good or bad thing, but he nodded in agreement just the same.

The door slid open and Deadlock stepped out, walking with purpose toward the elevator. For the first time in orns, Perceptor set foot outside his small known world, entering the hallway. It was sadly an exciting moment. He wanted to be sure to savor it, looking around at the dimly lit corridor and series of doors to other apartments.

“That’s not staying close,” Deadlock said as he held his hand on the elevator door to keep it from shutting.

Perceptor looked sheepishly at him, then made his way down the hallway to join Deadlock in the elevator. They stood side-by-side as the doors closed. This was certainly not the twist he expected the day to take, but it was a welcome distraction none-the-less. Anything to put distance between himself and his memories from earlier.

…

They walked from the apartment complex clear across the rebuilt area of the city to the former ship dock area. The entire time, Perceptor looked at the world around him with curious optics. Seeing the buildings, shops, mechs at street level was very different than it had been from his perch in the apartment. Rebuilt buildings were often covered in mismatched materials, undoubtedly recycled from what had been torn down throughout the war. And interestingly, he noticed many of the Decepticons looked unkempt and in similar if not worse shape than he was.

“You should stop gawking so much,” Deadlock said in a low voice as he glanced at Pecreptor.

“Sorry,” Perceptor replied as he turned his attention toward the warehouses in front of them.

They crossed a small bridge and walked up to the nearest warehouse. Deadlock nodded at the guard standing at the entrance. The guard nodded back and then waved them through.

Perceptor slowed to a stop just past the entrance into the building. It was an incredible sight. An entire warehouse large enough to house several Omega Supremes was filled with what looked like never ending rows of shelves covered in all manner of scavenged items.  It reminded him of Tremorwave’s bunker, but on an epic scale. Pieces of metal, parts, piles of electronics, even relics from the great hall were visible just from where he stood.

A touch to his arm caused him to flinch.

Deadlock’s fingers curled around Perceptor’s elbow as he sharply focused his optics on him. “What part of 'stay close' are you not getting?”

Perceptor shrank with embarrassment. “I apologize,” he said in a hushed voice.

Deadlock’s sharp gaze faded to something more along the lines of concern. “It’s dangerous to stray away from my side.”

Perceptor nodded.

Deadlock sighed air from his intakes, then let go of Perceptor’s arm. “Come on.”

Keeping up with Deadlock’s pace, Perceptor followed him into the maze of shelves. He continued to look around and take as much in as he could, but was careful not fall behind as they went deeper and deeper into the warehouse.

Coming to an abrupt stop, Deadlock started to search through small containers on the set of shelves next to them. Perceptor stared at them for a moment, trying to figure out what they were. He leaned in and read one of the labels on the containers. ‘Cybertron’s Criminal Force/ Date: 12890’. That was program that used to air.

“Are these the entertainment archive files?” Perceptor asked.

“I guess.” Deadlock tucked a container under his arm and then kept digging. “If you see something you want, grab it.”

Perceptor’s taste in programs was different than Deadlock’s. He doubted anything he once enjoyed would be entertaining for his master.

“All My Circuits?” Deadlock asked. He glanced at Perceptor. “You know this one?”

Perceptor couldn’t help the small smile that curved his lips. “It’s a romantic drama.”

“Oh,” Deadlock looked disappointed as he set the box down.

Perceptor silently watched Deadlock as he rummaged though the containers. From his elegant pointed helm finials to the powerful curves and shapes of his frame, Perceptor was acutely aware just how striking Deadlock was. He was the type of mech Perceptor would never have the gears to talk to in his youth before war.  

Pausing his digging, Deadlock looked at Perceptor, lifting an optic ridge. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock narrowed his optics. “Stop being weird and staring at me.”

“I apologize,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock heaved another annoyed sigh, then resumed picking through the containers.

Perceptor shifted his attention back to the shelves, reading the various show names listed on the ends of the containers. It was sad to see an integral part of their culture piled in such a chaotic manner. Everything in this post-war world seemed so messy and disheveled.

“I got what I want.” Deadlock glanced at Perceptor. “See anything?”

Perceptor shook his head.

“You sure?” Deadlock asked, canting his head.

“Yes.” Perceptor felt a strange tug in his spark in response to the attention Deadlock was giving him. He’d grown accustomed to being a fixture within the apartment, only interacted with on occasion. Maybe things between them really would be different now that they’d interfaced. The full impact still remained to be seen, but it appeared something between them was changing. Whether this was a good thing or not, Perceptor honestly didn’t know.

Half-frowning, Deadlock glanced down the aisle. “Let’s just walk around, I guess.”

They meandered through several aisles, both looking around at the scavenged items. Perceptor felt pangs of sadness and loss at seeing the pieces of their golden age broken and piled around them. As if all their society had once achieved and been meant nothing now.

“Nah, man. This is way better.”

Perceptor froze, recognizing the voice. He turned, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from.

“What is it?” Deadlock asked as he came to a stop and stared at Perceptor.

“Nothing,” Perceptor quickly replied.

Deadlock narrowed his optics, but didn’t press the question.

They continued down to the end of the aisle and turned to start down the next one. Perceptor’s gaze then landed on the source of the voice he heard: Jazz.

Stopping short, Perceptor stared in disbelief at the surreal scene before them. Jazz stood next to Soundwave, plucking through items on the shelf. He had no lead on his collar and he seemed to be lucid as he spoke, comparing his finds to what Soundwave held.

“You know him, right?” Deadlock asked as he glanced back at Perceptor.

“Yes,” Perceptor whispered.

A somewhat sympathetic look washed over Deadlock’s face. “Wanna talk to him?”

“Is that allowed?” Perceptor asked, surprised by the offer.

“Why not?” Deadlock turned and brazenly walked right up to Soundwave. “Commander Soundwave.”

Soundwave turned his attention away from the item in his hands, his visored gaze focusing on Deadlock. “Deadlock,” he intoned.

Jazz finally noticed Perceptor and smiled at him from where he stood on the other side of Soundwave.

Deadlock cut right to the chase. “Mind if the two of them talk a minute?”

Soundwave’s attention turned to Perceptor. He regarded him for a long, uncomfortable moment. “That is acceptable.”

Deadlock glanced over his shoulder at Perceptor, then jerked his head. “Go on.”

Unsure but not willing to give up his chance, Perceptor walked past Deadlock toward Jazz. Soundwave stepped back and motioned for Perceptor to pass him, too. Slipping past the communications officer, Perceptor came face to face with Jazz.

“Hey’ya Percy.” Jazz warmly smiled at Perceptor.

“Jazz.” Perceptor’s gaze raked over his comrade’s frame. He was fully repaired; even his formerly cracked visor, and his plating had been waxed to a glossy shine.  There was so much Perceptor wanted to ask. Had Jazz seen any others? Was he being abused? Or was being treated well? He couldn’t ask those things, however. Not with both Deadlock and Soundwave standing so close. “You look well.”

“Thanks. How ya been?” Jazz asked.

Perceptor dimmed his optics, trying to figure how best to answer. “I’m fairing,” he finally answered.

Jazz’s smile faded a little as his attention moved to Perceptor's shoulder. “Your microscope mount is gone?”

Perceptor's hand shot up to his shoulder, grasping at it. “It was removed at the compound.”

“I don’t remember that,” Jazz said with a half-frown. “I was so out of it thanks to those drugs they kept pumping into us.”

Perceptor tensed, surprised Jazz would openly say something like that in front of Soundwave.

“Slag, man. I'm sorry they did that to ya,” Jazz said, staring at the empty shoulder.

Shrugging, Perceptor forced a small smile to lips. “It was tended to. It no longer aches.”

Jazz then smiled, though, it had undertones of sadness to it. “That’s good. May--”

“Time allotment for interaction reached,” Soundwave interrupted.

Jazz’s intended words died in his vocalizer as he acknowledged the order with a sharp nod of his head. “Well, hopefully I’ll see ya again soon, Percy.”

Perceptor pressed his lips together tightly and nodded, trying not to give into the sorrow suddenly blossoming in him. They had literally spoken for a minute. That was all. It hurt more than he expected as he watched Soundwave and Jazz continue down the aisle and turn out of sight. Memories flooded his mind. Jazz had always been so kind, always looking out for everyone around him, even in the last moments before they were captured. To be Soundwave's obedient slave like that... It was spark breaking to see.

He tried to comfort himself with the fact that at least Jazz was alive, but how many more weren’t as ‘lucky’ as they were to be cared for by their masters?

A touch to Perceptor's arm startled him. He jerked backward as he looked at Deadlock, feeling his fragile hold on his emotions slipping away from him again.

"I'm starting to feel like moron for asking over and over, but _are_ you okay?" Deadlock asked.

This time no lies. Perceptor shook his head. "I would like to go back to the apartment now."

Deadlock’s red optics dimmed. “Okay.”

...

In the span of a minute, the progress made to pull Perceptor from his despondent mood had been destroyed. The entire walk back, Perceptor kept his head down, not looking around at like he’d done when they left the apartment earlier. Deadlock watched Perceptor walk into the apartment and proceed directly to the recliner next to the window, curling up on it.

This was not a good sign. And he knew the situation would only be made worse by the fact that he needed to get going shortly. He didn’t have time to try and make his lame attempts at comfort. If he didn’t show up at Turmoil’s quarters that aft would come here looking for him, and he’d do whatever it took to avoid that. Whatever it took to keep his Autobot safe. He scowled at that thought. Primus, when did he get so soft-sparked?

Unsure what else to do, he filled a glass with energon, then walked over and offered it to Perceptor.

Blue optics stared blankly at the offering.

“Take it. You haven’t had any today,” Deadlock said in a commanding tone.

Perceptor took the glass and held it to his chest.

Deadlock frowned. “Aren't you going to _drink_ it?”

Perceptor glared up at him in response. 

“Look, I have to go soon. I wanna be sure you have some fuel in you before I take off,” Deadlock said. He internally winced at how his words came out angrier sounding than he intended.

Perceptor narrowed his optics. “For a moment, I started to falsely believe you weren’t a complete aft. Are you really so entrenched in your faction symbol that you lack the ability to even empathize?” Perceptor’s beautiful voice was sharp and firm as he spoke.

Surprised to hear Perceptor snap at him, Deadlock stared for a moment, then half-smiled. Being feisty was a good sign. Squatting down beside the chair, Deadlock looked up into Perceptor’s blue optics. “I _can_ empathize. I lived in the gutters, for Pit’s sake. But the only way to survive is to be _strong_. It’s okay to mourn what you’ve lost, but you can’t let that grief destroy you.”

Confusion clouded Perceptor’s face as he stared at Deadlock.

Deadlock then grinned. “And yes, I _am_ an aft.”

Huffing air from his intakes Perceptor shook his head. “You confound me.”

Deadlock shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t mean to.”

Perceptor frowned as he fingered his energon. “One moment you treat me as something more than a fixture in your home, the next I’m a pet to be fed before you leave.”

“You are _not_ a pet,” Deadlock replied, unable to repress a rumble of anger at the accusation.

“What I am, then?” Perceptor asked. “What am I to _you_?”

“To me?” Deadlock shook his head. “You’re not obligated to be anything for me. Or ‘cause of me.”

“How can I not? You’re the only thing I have now. The only mech I see everyday.” Perceptor’s melodic voice wavered with his admission. “You’ve become the only reason I’ve not attempted to offline myself during your long absences. Like it or not, I’m bound to you so long as I stay here with you.”

Deadlock felt his spark quiver in his chest. A feeling he’d not experienced since living with Gasket all those eons ago. It made him uneasy. He’d sworn to never let himself be close to another mech like that again. The pain of loss had been too much. It had broken something in him back then, something he’d been sure was long gone, and yet—

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I apologize.” Perceptor shifted his gaze to the energon in his grasp, and seemed to fold in even tighter on himself.

Deadlock vaguely shook his head. Perceptor was being honest and real and all he could do was think of a long dead lover. Maybe he should offer a truth, too. “For what it’s worth, I appreciate that you waited up for me last night.”

Perceptor glanced at him, looking surprised, then he sadly frowned. “Being alone here is difficult.”

Primus, Perceptor really did deserve better than Deadlock was capable of giving him. “Yeah. I know. Hopefully, this leaving at night slag will end soon, though,” Deadlock replied. It was a stupid thing to offer him, but it really was all he had. He then put a hand on Perceptor’s leg and squeezed. “I really do need to go.”

“Then you should go,” Perceptor replied.

“Be back later.”

Perceptor simply nodded in reply, seemingly resigned to the fact he had no control.

Deadlock pushed back to his feet, taking a long look at Perceptor. Guilt filled him along with unwelcomed feelings within in his spark. He’d only intended to save Perceptor from a worse fate, not cause any of this pain.

…

This evening in Turmoil’s quarters felt different.

Deadlock’s arms were bound behind him and he stood, pressed front-first into the wall as Turmoil pounded him with his spike in sharp upward strokes. Turmoil groaned. It was deep and guttural indicating he was close to overloading. Deadlock’s valve ached; sending small radiating waves of pain echoing up his body each time Turmoil fully penetrated it. Black fingers grasped Deadlock’s hip plates tighter and tighter, eventually denting the plating as Turmoil was pushed closer to the edge of climax.

Deadlock focused on the pain, buried himself in it with each jarring thrust. He realized how much truth there had been in Turmoil’s words the other night. He did have a need only this abusive mech could fill. Punishment doled out as penance. Translating emotional pain into physical. Something tangible he could more easily face. He could hate the abuse and hate himself for all his faults this way.

“Frag! Uuuuhhh!” Turmoil’s spike jumped inside, spilling its contents and filling Deadlock’s valve. The sensor nodes were raw from the prolonged rubbing of the large, thick spike and the cycled mech fluid irritated his valve’s lining, making it burn.

Deadlock clenched his dentia, his body trembling from the intensity of the burning sensation until Turmoil slipped free and the pressure was released. He sagged against the wall, the side of his face pressed to its cooler surface.

“You’ve been much more compliant this evening. It’s a shame. This is far more enjoyable. Just as I finally re-break you…” Turmoil said with a huff of air from his intakes.

Shifting, Deadlock glanced over his shoulder at the larger mech. “What are you talking about?”

“My ship is scheduled to leave tomorrow.” Turmoil pulled Deadlock from the wall by an arm, leading him to the middle of the room.

“Oh,” Deadlock replied. He was careful not to let his relief at the news enter his voice.

“Knees,” Turmoil commanded.

Deadlock dropped down to kneel in front of Turmoil. Thick black fingers trailed over his helm’s finials, and his visor dimmed. “Join the crew. I don’t want to leave without my favorite prize.”

He frowned at Turmoil. “I’ll stick to my bug-squash duty, thanks.”

“Anything to get away from me, hm?” Turmoil asked, an edge of annoyance in his voice.

 _Yes_ , thought Deadlock. “No. Being on a ship is boring as slag. I’d rather kill things.” That wasn’t entirely a lie. He did like his current assignment. There was something deeply satisfying about destroying those mindless creatures and their nests.

Turmoil took hold of his slicked spike, squeezing and massaging it himself to work it back into an erect state. His visor darkened in hue as he stared down at Deadlock for a long moment.

“Open up,” Turmoil said in a curt tone.

Deadlock did as he was told and parted his lips. Turmoil slid his spike into his mouth. The gears at the back of his jaw struggled to open wide enough to encompass the girth as it was pushed forward. He could taste the sourness of the cycled mech fluid mixed with his own body’s fluids and bit back the urge to wince in disgust.

“Maybe that’s why you’re my favorite.” Turmoil placed his hand on the back of Deadlock’s helm. “You’re like a wild creature. Part of the pleasure is trying to tame you,” he said as his spike was slowly pushed in and out of Deadlock’s open mouth. “Make you my obedient little pet.”

Perceptor’s words echoed then in his mind. _One moment you treat me as something more than a fixture in your home, the next I’m a pet to fed before you leave._ A moment of clarity suddenly struck Deadlock. He had no illusions that to Turmoil he was nothing more than an object, but he’d not fully realized that this insignificant, hollow feeling he had right now was probably how Perceptor felt around _him_.

Primus, what kind of monster was he? He attempted to protect Perceptor and in the end only hurt him. Deadlock then wondered as he endured Turmoil’s thrusting motions if he was even capable of not fragging everything around him up. Was he simply cursed to harm everyone eventually, no matter how hard he tried not to?


	6. The Same but Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter includes a scene with frotting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When I came down the dawn poured into me  
> I shook'em up, the walls came crumbling  
> My fists kept trembling with these salty wounds  
> My stolen gold inside the emperor’s tomb
> 
> Now painting rainbows on my ugly face  
> I built this cardboard neighborhood's disgrace  
> But I ascend and serve my feverish need  
> Within the confines of such chemistry
> 
> It's the way I see  
> Everything I need  
> It's no way to be”
> 
> ‘Little Secrets’ by Passion Pit

Deadlock stiffly walked down the hallway toward his apartment’s door. Three nights in a row of being rubbed raw by Turmoil’s stupid fragging spike had taken a toll. On the ship, Turmoil hadn’t been this demanding of him, fragging him multiple times in an evening. Even Deadlock’s body had its limits. The giant fragger’s extra rounds of slamming into his valve in some sort of farce of interfacing him made sense now, knowing Turmoil’s time on planet was short. Primus, he was relieved to know that aft would be gone by tomorrow.

Palming open the door, he walked inside and found himself greeted by a pair of blue optics, peering at him through the darkness from around the back of the recliner.

Perceptor rose from his seat and cautiously approached. That odd, yet familiar flutter in Deadlock’s spark returned. It was unwanted. Unwelcomed. Losing Gasket still hurt, even now. The idea that someone else might gain that kind of power over him was deeply upsetting.

“Your limp…” Perceptor’s optics dimmed. “Is not due to an injury in any of your gears.”

“No,” Deadlock replied in a flat tone.

Unlike the previous nights, Perceptor didn’t offer or insist on looking. Instead, he gave Deadlock a strange, lost look before turning and quietly padding down the hallway to the berthroom.

Deadlock limped along behind him. He paused inside the doorway, watching Perceptor crawl onto the berth.

“Not gonna check me tonight?” Deadlock asked.

Perceptor glanced at Deadlock, his blue optics’ gaze colder than usual. “Your valve rim is most likely dented and the lining inflamed. Nothing can be done, other than letting your auto repair do its job.”

“Kinda scary you can tell that just from watching me walk,” Deadlock replied, forcing a half-smile.

Perceptor didn’t reply. He looked away and lay down, rolling to his side with his back to Deadlock.

Anger and hurt swirled in Deadlock’s chest at Perceptor’s sudden chilly treatment, which in turn made his spark ache. He limped to the edge of the berth, then gingerly sat down. He stared at Perceptor’s back, unsure what he’d done exactly to upset him.

“You’re mad at me?” Deadlock asked.

Perceptor’s pedes shifted slightly. “What I feel is hardly relevant.”

Deadlock’s posture sank. “That’s not true.”

“Did you not essentially indicate earlier when we spoke that I should stop being weak?” Perceptor asked, though, it was more of an accusation than a question.

Deadlock opened his mouth to say something deflective. Something along the lines of ‘think whatever you want’. That was his nature. The best way he’d found to protect himself from being hurt was by pushing everyone away. But he stopped himself, remembering that small, insignificant feeling earlier when Turmoil equated him to a wild creature. Something mindless. An object to be possessed. A sensation he didn’t want to inflict on Perceptor by being dismissive toward him.

Besides, who was he to tell Perceptor to stop mourning when he hadn’t really let go of his feelings for Gasket? For the first time, he tried to imagine what it might feel like to lose as much as Perceptor had. Losing not only those he cared about but his freedom as well. It was one thing to know it on some surface level but as Deadlock sat there trying to step into Perceptor’s armor and see the world from his point of view, he realized just how callous he must have sounded earlier.

Perceptor shifted, glancing over his shoulder at Deadlock with a questioning look about his long silence.

Two words then slipped past his lips as he stared into those blue optics. Words he’d deliberately never said to anyone. “I’m sorry.”

Surprised, Perceptor’s optics brightened as rolled to his back. “That… was not what I expected you to say.”

Deadlock frowned, the weight of his admission hanging heavily around him. “Well, I am.”

Perceptor looked genuinely dumbfounded.

Deadlock vented air from his intakes in a soft hiss, deflated. He was bad at explaining anything, especially how he felt. “Look, I’m in no position to tell you what to do, especially when it comes to dealing with all the slag that’s been heaped on you. You’re probably better off not listening to me.”

The surprised expression faded as Perceptor gazed at him. “Your advice from earlier has it’s own merit. Wallowing in pain is no way to live, but my isolation here makes it hard, if not impossible, to move forward,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock grimaced, as a thick wave of guilt rolled through him. “I know.”

“In all honesty, my pain will not cease so long as I am not free. I apologize for the hardship this creates,” Perceptor added, his voice softening to an apologetic tone. “It seems you are quite burdened already.”

Staring at Perceptor, Deadlock felt this spark ache and flutter at the same time. He didn’t deserve even an ounce of sympathy from Perceptor and yet it was being offered with such natural ease. Perceptor was so unlike anyone Deadlock had ever known before. He wasn’t selfish. He hadn’t let the darkness around him taint his spark.

“You are anything but a burden,” Deadlock replied. The guilt, the quiver in his spark, the fact he was inept when it came to discussing anything, it was all too much to take after his long evening of torture at Turmoil’s hands. He just wanted to clean his body of the evidence and hopefully clear his mind. He carefully got to his feet. “I need to clean myself up.”

Perceptor nodded at him with a sad-looking frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Deadlock turned and limped away toward the washrack, seeking a moment of solitary asylum in which to do his own wallowing.

…

The soft shuffle of Deadlock’s pedes over the metallic floor roused Perceptor from his light recharge. He’d tried to wait up for him, but Deadlock had been in the washrack much longer than usual and the sound of the running water had lulled Perceptor offline. He dimly lit his optics just as Deadlock turned out the lighting.

Deadlock didn’t look at Perceptor as he crawled into the berth and laid down front first. Tonight he turned his head to face toward the room, not Perceptor. Something about that made Perceptor ache inside. Deadlock wasn’t the most sensitive of mechs, but Perceptor believed that he meant well, even if he was harsh or clumsy in his approach most of the time.

Remembering that feeling from earlier of being held after they’d interfaced, Perceptor suddenly and selfishly wanted it back. To return to that moment of warmth before the events of the day had complicated things. Recapture how he’d felt in Deadlock’s affectionate hold that managed to chase away the weight of his sadness. Maybe he could evoke those feelings again, while in turn offering the same comfort to Deadlock? Clearly they were both suffering, even if for vastly different reasons.

Gathering his courage, Perceptor rolled over and scooted across the berth, gently touching a hand to Deadlock’s back before moving to curl up along his side. He pressed his face into the freshly cleaned plating of Deadlock’s shoulder, enjoying his warmth and the scent of the cleanser.

For a moment, it seemed Perceptor’s gesture was accepted. He began to relax, drifting away toward recharge when Deadlock unexpectedly moved, shifting from his front to his side so his back was to Perceptor.

Startled awake by the movement, Perceptor stared at the intricate back plates lit by his optics in the darkness. Reading the body language as a signal he’d done something he shouldn’t have, Perceptor started to pull away and move back to his side of the berth.

Deadlock reached back and caught his hand, though, tugging on him. “Stay,” he said. “Please.”

Shocked at the verbal invite, Perceptor froze mid-movement.

Deadlock rolled his shoulder back and glanced at him. Even in the darkness Perceptor could see emotional pain he was in, his ruby red optics speaking volumes.

Perceptor nodded, then slid to lie against his back, arm slipping around Deadlock’s torso. His fingers, for the first time, were allowed to touch the elaborate plating that decorated Deadlock’s chest without the need to be clinical and detached. Spooning against Deadlock, Perceptor pressed the entirety of his frame close.

Deadlock’s hand settled over Perceptor’s in a light touch. It felt remarkable to have his gesture of affection accepted. He pressed his forehelm into Deadlock’s broad back, and offlined his optics, bathing in the warmth between them. Clinging to Deadlock, Perceptor realized just how much he’d come to care about him. Whether it was a product of his captivity or something more, he wasn’t sure. Though, he didn’t really care if that was why. It just felt so good to focus on something other than his pain for once.

Before long, the late hour and his exhaustion got the better of him and he slipped offline, filled with a sense of contentment he’d not felt in a very, very long time.

Maybe things could be better if they tried together.

…

_Gasket grinned. His smile could light up the darkest alleyway. Drift vaguely smiled back. It was a facial expression he didn’t use much, and it felt forced. They’d only just met, but Drift knew he’d follow this incandescent mech anywhere he led._

_“You like it?” Gasket asked._

_Drift glanced at the small, glowing cube of energon in his hands. Gasket had stolen a small stash of high-grade energon for them to share. “Pretty good,” he replied._

_Gasket took a sip, then made a satisfied sound. “Haven’t had any in a while. This stuff is nice and strong.”_

_Drift took another swig, letting the pungent, sweet taste roll around his mouth before swallowing. It_ was _strong. His systems were already warming from it._

_The safest place they could find to be alone to enjoy the spoils of Gasket’s theft was an alleyway that ran along side an abandoned warehouse. They’d piled crates up to provide a visual barrier to anyone who may pass by on the street. In this part of the city passersby were usually in vehicle mode, adding an extra layer of protection from prying optics. Despite their precautions, Drift still felt on edge. Danger loomed everywhere. Even in the safest, most seemingly isolated areas the predators could show up, ready to beat them down and take their meager possessions._

_Drift glanced around, his optics sharpening their focus._

_Gasket seemed to notice his darting gaze. “Stop being so paranoid. We’re safe here.” Gasket playfully punched Drift in the arm, then downed the remainder of his cube. He picked up another one and cracked the seal. “You better keep up!”_

_Drift shook his head at his companion but accepted the challenge, lifting his cube up and taking a series of gulps. A fuzzy feeling filled his processor as the fuel went careening through his systems. He softly sighed air from his intakes, finally giving in and relaxing a little._

_“You know, the minute I saw you I knew I’d like you,” Gasket said._

_“Oh?” Drift gave him a sidelong glance._

_Gasket tipped his head back, draining the second container. Tossing it aside, Gasket turned his full attention to Drift. “Yep.”_

_“Why is that?” Drift asked._

_“I get a good vibe from you.” Gasket shifted closer, turning his upper body toward Drift. “Like there’s something inside you destined for something amazing.”_

_Drift chuckled. “You’re drunk.”_

_Gasket snorted a laugh. “I totally am! You should make your move on me now.”_

_“What move?” Drift replied as he raised an optic ridge._

_Laughing, Gasket scooted over and straddled Drift’s lap, his bright smile turning somewhat lustful. “We’re buzzed and alone. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”_

_Canting his head, Drift gazed up into Gasket’s face. He had definitely considered it, but he had no idea Gasket was even interested in him as more than an alleyway buddy. “Maybe.”_

_Gasket cupped his hands around Drift’s hands, holding the high grade fuel. He guided it to Drift’s lips. “Drink.”_

_Drift did as he was asked, gulping down the remainder. Once it was drained, Gasket pulled his hands down, trading the container for his own lips against Drift’s. Throwing the container to the ground, Drift slid his arms around Gasket’s waist. Parting his lips to deepen the kiss, Gasket responded in kind. He tasted sweet, like the high grade they’d consumed._

_Breaking the kiss, Gasket pulled back to stare into Drift’s optics. It was intense, as if Gasket was seeing right through to his very core. “Yep. Good vibes.”_

_Drift smiled, this time more naturally._

_“You think I’m just drunk and babbling, but it’s true.” Gasket dimmed his optics. “You’re a good mech, don’t forget that.”_

…

Onlining, Deadlock winced. Annoyed his internal alarm had interrupted his memory file. He was left aching for Gasket and warm with desire left unfulfilled.  That’s when reality came into focus, and he realized part of the heat he felt was Perceptor wrapped around him. He glanced down at the black hand and turquoise forearm clinging tightly to his chest.

The previous evening’s events pushed to the front of his mind. Deadlock didn’t understand why Perceptor wasn’t still angry with him. Why he’d wanted to be close like this. Desperate for comfort, he’d taken advantage of the offer, as undeserving as he was of it.

Black fingers pressed against his chest. “You’re warm,” Perceptor whispered.

Deadlock grunted. “Memory of getting drunk.” _And fragging in an alleyway_ , he mentally added.

“Ah,” Perceptor replied.  

Silence reigned for a long moment. Heaving a sigh, Deadlock pressed his hand over Perceptor’s. Black fingers curled against his chest, and Perceptor’s body moved against his back.

“You have your shift soon, correct?” Perceptor asked.

That voice. The warmth of his touch. Desire prickled inside Deadlock. He wanted to feel it again. That tight, hot space between Perceptor’s trembling legs. Perceptor’s need and his own want melding into a lovely moment they could forget themselves in. Frowning, he tried to push the idea out of his mind. Perceptor wasn’t his to have like that. It wasn’t right. Yesterday he’d been asked. That didn’t mean today he could just take. Besides, Perceptor deserved better than some former guttermech.

“Yeah, I do,” Deadlock replied, staring at the blue forearm and dial. He let his hand slide down and touch the silvery adornment on Perceptor’s arm. “Still mad?” Deadlock asked. It was a stupid thing to ask, but he didn’t know what else to say in the face of his inappropriate thoughts.

Perceptor shook his head against his back. “No.”

“Should be,” Deadlock replied. “I was an aft to you.”

“You apologized.” Perceptor replied.

Logic. Tit for tat. Deadlock wasn’t used to this sort of levelness in his world. “Next time I’m an aft, you tell me. Okay?”

“Agreed,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock dimmed his optics. Perceptor was nothing like Gasket. He wasn’t bright and happy-go-lucky. Gasket had been a beacon for Deadlock back then, something to hang onto in the face of an otherwise dark and sad existence. Perceptor was heavy with sadness. Sullen and shy. Why would someone like Perceptor evoke such similar feelings? It was then realized that despite the weight of grief that hung over Perceptor, he was still himself. The darkness hadn’t tainted who he was. Deadlock, on the other hand, had let it ruin him. In that way, Perceptor _was_ just like Gasket. 

This was what he didn’t want. Complications. Emotional ties. “I should go,” Deadlock said.

Perceptor gave a squeeze to Deadlock’s frame before finally pulling away. That small act caused his spark to flutter in his chest. He pushed to sit up and gazed down at Perceptor beside him.

Staring at him, it almost felt like he was seeing him for the first time. Perceptor looked the same and yet so very different. That pained look he’d been wearing for weeks on end had softened. His plating was dull from lack of care; in contrast to the care he’d offered Deadlock over the last few days. Perceptor deserved to be treated well. That meant more than just keeping him safe. Tremorwave was right…

Blue optics shined with confusion as they gazed back up at him. “Something wrong?” Perceptor asked.

“Your plating is really dull,” Deadlock said. He used his words as an excuse to touch Perceptor, trailing his fingers up the blue forearm.

“Hardly worth bothering with,” Perceptor replied, his optics focused on Deadlock’s uninvited touch.

“I disagree,” Deadlock replied. “But we can talk about it later.”

Perceptor’s gaze snapped back up to Deadlock’s face and he nodded.

“Got some Swarm to go kill,” Deadlock said with wry smile.

Perceptor hadn’t smiled much in his time here, but the corners of his lips perked up in response, like a shadow of a smile. 

Heaving himself to his feet, Deadlock cast one last long look at his Autobot, then waved as he turned to leave. It was far too late to stop the tendrils of emotions curling around his spark. He knew that. It still didn’t make it any less terrifying to face. What if he failed Perceptor like he had Gasket? He winced as he left the apartment, tromping down the hallway. In a way, he knew he’d already failed, though. The moment he’d paid his credits for Perceptor he’d spoiled any chance of there being equality between them. The best he could hope for was to make Perceptor’s life with him a little less miserable.

…

Perceptor sat curled up in the recliner, silently watching the mechs below, while listening to the muffled sounds of the water running. Deadlock had returned from his shift splattered from helm to pede in his day’s kills. He’d nodded a hello to Perceptor then made a b-line for the washrack. Normally Perceptor wouldn’t hear the water flow from his seat at the window, but Deadlock hadn’t closed the door to the washrack, allowing the sounds to echo down the hallway.

He fully expected the evening to be a repeat of the last three. Another night alone, waiting for Deadlock to return. Perceptor sighed and dimmed his optics, trying to ignore the unsettled feeling rolling through him. He still wasn’t sure what he was, or was becoming to Deadlock. His place as a fixture in the apartment wasn’t pleasant, but it had been a known quantity. Now things were shifting and he had no idea what the outcome would be. The unknown of it all was more upsetting than he wanted to admit.

Perceptor touched his arm where Deadlock had earlier in the morning. Running his fingers over his pitted, dull plating. He certainly was a neglected mess, wasn’t he?

The sound of the water stopped.

Deadlock came down the hallway, halting at the entrance to the living area and casting his gaze in Perceptor's direction. “Come here,” Deadlock ordered.

Perceptor stared at him. “Where?”

“Washrack.” Deadlock motioned for Perceptor to get up. “Come on.”

“I’m clean,” Perceptor replied, confused.

“Yeah, but you need a wax.” Deadlock’s optics dimmed. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Perceptor hardly thought waxing his plating would make him feel any different. Besides, it seemed like such a frivolous thing to do. Why bother? He had no one to impress. Well, maybe that wasn't entirely true. A part of him wished he felt attractive to Deadlock. But he knew yesterday's interfacing had been out of pity, nothing more.

“Come on,” Deadlock said again, canting his head.

Pushing to stand, Perceptor relented. After all, he belonged to him, didn't he? He should do as he's asked if for no other reason than to please him, right? He followed his master to the washrack room and subsequently into the stall he’d scrubbed down earlier in the morning. He frowned, seeing it was already splattered with the guts of Deadlock’s kills.

Deadlock shut the door to the stall and began riffling through the set of bottles on the small inset shelf. Perceptor realized how much smaller the space felt with two mechs filling it.

Choosing one of the bottles, Deadlock turned to face Perceptor. “Turn around.”

Perceptor didn’t question the command; turning his back to Deadlock, only then realizing Deadlock wasn’t in his usual rush to leave. Curious. “Your evening outing cancelled?”

“He’s gone. I’m not going out.” Deadlock’s hands tentatively touched Perceptor’s back. Fingers splayed over his plating, carefully spreading the wax solution around in circles.

“Gone?” Perceptor looked over his shoulder at Deadlock.

Red optics dimmed as they met Perceptor’s gaze. “He’s a captain. Everyone thinks it’s just a rumor, but Megatron has him on some stupid mission to find a ship of escaped Autobots. Turns out they were only here to restock before heading back out.”

Escaped Autobots. Perceptor turned to face the wall again. “They will never find it.”

“Find what? The ship?” Deadlock asked as his hands moved from the small of Perceptor’s back up the center.

It felt nice to be touched. Perceptor dimmed his optics, relaxing. “Yes.”

Deadlock’s hands stopped moving. “Wait, that ship is real?”

Perceptor’s optics brightened. Should he tell Deadlock? The ship was long gone by now and with the cloaking device he’d installed, they would certainly never be found. He decided it wouldn’t hurt anything if his master knew. “Yes, the ship is real.”

“How the frag did it get off planet? All the activity was monitored so no ships would escape,” Deadlock asked.

Perceptor turned to glance over his shoulder at Deadlock, again. “Cloaking device.”

Deadlock snorted and laughed. “No such thing!”

“I used a piece of alien technology I had acquired and adapted it to the ship’s controls,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock’s smile faded. “You’re serious?”

Perceptor nodded.

“Frag.” Deadlock stared at Perceptor with a look of awe. “So they really won’t _ever_ find them.”

“The probability is quite low,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock then half-smiled. “Guess I should thank you for keeping that fragger off planet for me.”

Perceptor had no verbal reply and simply nodded his head before turning back to face the wall. It was nice to be looked at with such appreciation and awe for his once important role among the Autobots, but it also deeply bothered him that Deadlock’s only reprieve from abuse was an ultimately doomed mission. Of course, Perceptor also didn't understand why Deadlock had been willingly going there to be hurt in the first place. Much of his master's behavior made no logical sense to him.

Silence settled around them as Deadlock continued to massage a fresh coat of wax over his plating. His touch was gentle as he moved his hands down the backsides of each arm and then up over his helm. Perceptor stood still, optics dimming as he allowed himself to enjoy the sensation of being touched like this. It occurred to him that he’d been shown more physical attention in his time here with Deadlock, than in his entire lifetime before hand. Primus, he was pathetic.

“Turn around,” Deadlock ordered.

Perceptor obeyed, turning to face him. After squeezing out more solution into his hands, Deadlock reached up, finishing the front side of Perceptor’s helm. His hands then moved down to his shoulder, gently massaging the solution over and around the severed mounts. Deadlock’s fingers lightened their touch, as if he knew despite the lack of physical pain, that area still _hurt_ in it’s own way.

“Thank you,” Perceptor said in a hushed voice, truly appreciating the care he was being shown.

Deadlock flashed a small smile in reply, and then let his fingers trail down Perceptor’s arm, pushing the solution around the joints and over the plating. Once finished, he shifted his attention the other shoulder and arm to repeat the same actions.

Having nowhere else to look, really, Perceptor’s gaze wandered over Deadlock’s frame. He noticed how the lines of his master’s chest armor wrapped around from his back, neatly meeting in the center. Saw that the white of his main body was mostly covered by the mods and additional plating painted in black. His alt mode’s wheels sat tucked inside the wheel wells at the backs of each shoulder. He was sleek and powerful in his build. A gorgeous mech by anyone’s standards. Perceptor could hardly believe they’d interfaced. That he’d been the object of this mech’s desire. His valve’s opening twitched at the memory of how it had felt to be filled by him and a small ripple of heat ran up his spinal strut, causing him to shiver.

Deadlock’s movements stilled.

Perceptor’s attention snapped to Deadlock's face, and he found himself staring into ruby red optics. “Sorry,” he said in a hushed voice, unsure what he was apologizing for exactly. His desire? His inappropriate staring?

“Sorry?” Deadlock asked, stepping even closer to Perceptor in the small space.

It wasn’t just Perceptor’s body temperature that had spiked. He could feel the heat being expelled from Deadlock’s frame radiating against his plating.

“I didn’t mean to…” Perceptor frowned.

Deadlock moved his hands to Perceptor’s chest, wiping the remaining wax down his front. “Mean to what?”

“Stare,” Perceptor replied in almost a whisper.

“I don’t really mind,” Deadlock replied, his hands settling on either side of Perceptor's waist.

“Oh,” Perceptor replied, caught between fear of overstepping a line he shouldn’t and the blossoming desire inside him.

Deadlock leaned forward, pressing the side of his helm to Perceptor's and whispering into his audio. "Do you want me, again?"

His whole body seemed to light on fire with those whispered words. Perceptor tensed as he nodded.

"Please say it," Deadlock whispered. His words weren't an order, though. It was if he was asking _permission_. "Please..."

"I want you," Perceptor whispered back, unable to control the quiver in his voice.

Permission granted.

A nuzzle to Perceptor's helm, and then a dark colored hand slid downward. Perceptor grabbed hold of Deadlock by the shoulders, clinging tightly. His interface array cover was deftly opened by practiced fingers. His spike pushed free of the housing caught in Deadlock's warm hand. Pressing his face into Deadlock's neck, he trembled as his spike was massaged. His sensory net flaring and pulsing with arousal and want. His world narrowed to that hand wrapped around his spike, focusing on the pressure around it, the stimulation of sensory nodes responding with an intense, tingling pleasure.

Suddenly Deadlock's hand slowed as the other hand reached up to pry one of Perceptor's arms it free of his shoulder. He took hold of Perceptor’s hand, pressing it over his own interface cover. "Yours," he whispered.

Perceptor shifted his head to see down between their bodies. He clumsily fingered the edges of Deadlock's cover, finding himself distracted by the sight of that black hand palming his spike slowly, gently. "I'm sorry..." Perceptor said as he fumbled.

Deadlock nuzzled his helm, and then pressed his lips in a not-quite kiss. "You always apologize. Stop."

Affection. He was being treated with what felt like genuine affection. Perceptor’s spark fluttered in response. No one had ever been like this with him before.   _No one._

Undoing the cover himself, Deadlock’s decorated spike extended outward into Perceptor’s hand. It was beautiful, dark grey colored with a raised swirling pattern wrapping around it in a light grey. Perceptor curiously ran his fingers over the raised pattern, unwittingly drawing a low moan from Deadlock. In the shadow of their bodies, he could only see so much. He was about to ask about the unique spike design when Deadlock gave his a harder squeeze. Perceptor whimpered, desire instantly clouding his mind. _I’ll have to ask later_ , he vaguely thought.

“Here,” Deadlock said, his voice heady with desire. He took hold of both their spikes and Perceptor let go, grasping Deadlock’s shoulder once more as he watched.

Deadlock squeezed them together in his hand, eliciting a throaty moan from Perceptor. Deadlock chuckled. The friction from their spikes rubbing against one another within the warm grip of Deadlock’s experienced hand felt intoxicating. Perceptor dimmed his optics, trembling. Heat swirled around in his abdomen, while pressure built within his spike.

Picking up the pace, small gusts of air escaped Deadlock’s vents in time with his actions. Twinges of overload flashed over the edges of Perceptor’s body and he pressed his face into Deadlock’s shoulder. Suddenly he shuddered and wantonly whined as an intense climax crested over him. Hot cycled mech fluid exploded from his spike, splattering both of them. Deadlock gave another couple hard pumps with his hand before his decorated spike jerked and unloaded as well. Unlike Perceptor’s long, needful whine, Deadlock only grunted once as he came.

Feeling weak in the joints, Perceptor held fast to Deadlock so he wouldn’t buckle to the stall floor. Deadlock slid his free arm around him, helping to support his weight.

“You okay?” Deadlock asked after a moment, his sticky hand letting go and moving to Perceptor’s waist.

Perceptor nodded into his shoulder.

The pleasurable haze in his processor slowly began to clear. As it did, he was left with so many questions whirling in his mind. What was this? What was he to Deadlock? Why had he asked for permission? Perceptor decided he needed to know what he truly meant to Deadlock before he allowed his desire to muddle things further.

Leaning back to look into Deadlock’s face, he dimmed his optics. "Why?" Perceptor asked.

"Why what?" Deadlock asked back.

Perceptor felt embarrassed, but he had to ask. He needed to know. "Yesterday was out of pity, was it not?"

Deadlock instantly narrowed his red optics, looking deeply offended. " _Pity?_ "

Regretting his choice of words, Perceptor suddenly feared he'd lose whatever this undefined thing between them was by trying to place a box of understanding around it. "It's just that you're _beautiful_ and I'm... _not_. And I've been nothing but a burden to you while here. Having spent most of my life alone, I simply–I don't know what this is. How I’m supposed to act or be. Or why you'd even want someone like me. Not even my comrades or coworkers, or anyone, has ever treated me like you have... I… I just…" He trailed off, knowing he'd said far too much. Admitted to how pathetic he truly was. He had nothing to offer Deadlock.

The sharpness in Deadlock's expression faded away. "No one has ever treated me the way you have, either." He deeply frowned. "You deserve better than me."

Shaking his head, Perceptor felt his spark surge in his chest. "That last statement is not true."

"It _is_ true. And thing is, I hate that you’re so miserable here with me," Deadlock replied.

"I seemed to be fated to be miserable, no matter the circumstances.” Heaving a sigh, Perceptor placed his hand over the healing injury on Deadlock's chest. “Honestly, the only time the pain in my spark lessens is in your presence."

Surprise flashed over Deadlock's face, then he sadly smiled. "Well, I'm yours to have. Just have to say so."

Perceptor stared at him in disbelief.

"And just so you know, that collar means nothing here," Deadlock said as his optics flicked down to give the piece of metal circling Perceptor's neck a dark glare. A distant, sad look then swept Deadlock’s face as he grimaced. "And just because I don't have one around my neck, doesn't mean I don't know how you feel."

Perceptor could see just how much that admission hurt Deadlock to say and just how much he meant it.

Tracing a circle over the area where the injury had mostly healed on Deadlock's chest, he wondered about the abuse Deadlock had willingly endured over the last three days. By his own choice or perhaps not, Perceptor realized one thing to be true: Deadlock did understand on some level what Perceptor was going through.

"Thank you," Perceptor whispered.

“For what?” Deadlock asked.

“Being honest. Being here with me,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock’s optics softened their glow as he gazed at Perceptor. “Still think you deserve a lot better than to be stuck with me.” Deadlock glanced downward and half-smiled. “And now you _do_ need to be cleaned up.”

Perceptor’s lips parted to object to the self-deprecating comment, but decided to let it go for now. He could try and better understand Deadlock’s lack of self-esteem in time. After all, he had an unending amount of it ahead of him with this mech.  


	7. The Afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But it was not your fault but mine  
> And it was your heart on the line  
> I really fucked it up this time  
> Didn't I, my dear?  
> Didn't I, my dear?”
> 
> -Mumford and Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to KineticSynergy and Hellkitty for betaing for me. 
> 
> Interfacing, fluff and violence ahead... Sorry for the long delay in the update.

The only weight over him now was Deadlock, his presence, his scent, and his spike connecting them. Perceptor groaned, fingers desperately clinging to Deadlock’s sides in the darkness of the room. All the pain, the memories of loss, had lifted off his shoulders as he gave into the physicality of interfacing. All that mattered was here and now. Just as promised earlier, all Perceptor had to do was ask. It was a peculiar but also empowering position he now found himself in with his master. Power handed to him willingly. He felt a small ripple of guilt at his selfishness for asking, but he wanted to know if Deadlock really meant what he’d said. That long lost scientist still buried in him, seeking proof, especially in the face of the fact that he’d never had anyone like Deadlock in his life before. He could scarcely believe this was even real.   
  
Deadlock twisted his hips, grabbing Perceptor’s left leg and hiking his knee up over his hip. The change in angle hit different sets of nodes hidden behind the thin mesh walls of Perceptor’s valve. Throwing his head back against the berth, he arched under Deadlock and moaned. His whole frame shuddered with nothing less than pure pleasure; Deadlock’s vast experience against his own inexperience made crystal clear.  
  
Pressing his lips to Perceptor’s neck, Deadlock’s glossa flicked out; gliding over what cables he could reach. The collar blocked half Perceptor’s neck, though. The pace of that hot, erect spike sliding in and out of Perceptor caused his valve to flutter and tighten around Deadlock’s spike with each thrust, as if desperately trying to hold on and not let go. Perceptor whined as he felt the twinges of overload flash through his body. Seeming to sense that fact, Deadlock changed his pace again. This time hard, sharp strokes of his spike were followed by his slowly withdrawing before repeating the stabbing motion.  
  
Perceptor’s entire frame started to tremble. He dug his fingers into the plating on Deadlock’s sides, bracing himself. After a few more sharp thrusts, Deadlock picked his pace up again. Perceptor’s valve walls quivered and then contracted as Deadlock’s spike slid in and out at a intensified pace, finally pushing him over the edge. Perceptor cried out, his entire body shuddering with a powerful overload. Offlining his optics, he gave himself over to the sensation racking his body as he contorted beneath Deadlock.  
  
Deadlock continued his thrusts, until Perceptor felt his spike suddenly jump within his valve, spilling hot cycled mech fluid inside him. Electrical zings from the fluid spread over the sensitized mesh walls, creating a second, smaller overload. Perceptor shivered and whined, fingers curling possessively over Deadlock’s plating. After a long moment, he dimly lit his optics. Deadlock lay over him, with a hazy, unfocused gaze.  
  
“Your voice is even prettier when you overload,” Deadlock said with a smile.  
  
Heat flashed over Perceptor’s faceplates. Compliments like that were not something he was used to.  
  
Deadlock carefully unhooked Perceptor’s leg from its raised position and then shifted his hips, slipping his spike free. Relaxing against the berth, Perceptor sighed with contentment, swimming in a lovely euphoric state where no pain could reach him. Deadlock moved to lie down against Perceptor’s side, head propped on his shoulder, arm slung over his middle in a semi-possessive hold. Seemingly comfortable, Deadlock then dimmed his optics. He looked both sated and tired.  
  
“I apologize for keeping you up. I know you have your shift tomorrow,” Perceptor said as he idly ran his fingers over Deadlock’s arm lying across his chest.  
  
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying you’re ‘sorry’ all the time?” Deadlock replied.  
  
“Sorry,” Perceptor said as he quirked a small smile.  
  
Deadlock’s optics grew brighter as he stared at him. “You making jokes and smiling now?”  
  
“You prefer I didn’t?” Perceptor asked back.  
  
Deadlock’s optics softened their glow. “Smiling looks nice on you.”  
  
There it was again. Affection. That stoic, dark mask lifted to expose another side to Deadlock. It was clear life had been hard on him, forcing him to mostly hide this gentler part of his personality. Perceptor felt honored to be allowed small glimpses of it.  
  
As the aftermath of overloading dissipated, Perceptor settled into the comforting feeling of Deadlock curled around him. He felt safe, cared for, and most important of all: not alone.  
  
“Night,” Perceptor whispered.  
  
“Night,” Deadlock mumbled as his optics flicked off and he squeezed Perceptor.  
  
He watched Deadlock for a little while. The hard lines on his face smoothed as he relaxed and slipped into recharge. The soft vibrations of his frame soon lulled Perceptor offline as well. His waning thoughts swirled around Deadlock and this not-quite relationship they were now engaging in. He had never expected things to change like this. But then, he also never expected to still be alive, either.  
  
...  
  
  
 _Staring across the energon bar, Perceptor silently watched as Ratchet flirted with the new weapons tech who had just transferred, touching the other’s arm and laughing loud enough it echoed across the bar area. It had been several months since their one date and night together, but Perceptor couldn’t seem to let go of his lingering feelings for the medic._  
  
 _“You can totally do better, Percy.”_  
  
 _Perceptor’s attention snapped to the mech who sat himself down at the same table. “Hello, Jazz.”_  
  
 _Jazz canted his head and offered a small smile. “Hey there. Don’t mind me sittin’, do ya?”_  
  
 _“Of course not,” Perceptor replied._  
  
 _“Meant that, by the way. You can do better than Ratch.” Jazz took a long sip of his golden-hued high grade._  
  
 _“My options are limited at best, but I appreciate the sentiment.” Perceptor internally sighed, as he ran his fingers around the rim of his own energon glass._  
  
 _“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You got lots to offer, but you first you need to stop pining over him. He’s definitely the best medic we got, and an all ‘round good mech but he’s also a player. And I would know.” Jazz half-smiled. “I’m a player, too. Thing is, we all cope with this war different ways. Fer mechs like me and ol’ Ratch it’s about finding comfort but not ever lettin’ anyone too close.”_  
  
 _Perceptor slowly nodded as he listened. Jazz was always a friendly mech, but with a few glasses of high grade in him, he tended to be even more so._  
  
 _Jazz sat forward in his seat, resting his forearms on the table. “Seriously, Percy. Yer smart, and you’ve got a good spark. Unlike me and him, yer honest in everythin’ you do. That’s rare trait, lemmie tell ya. There’s someone out there fer you. Just gotta look around.”_  
  
 _Perceptor wasn’t one to fool himself. He was well aware that he lacked an attractive appearance and his being ‘smart’ usually drove most mechs running the other direction. But he recognized Jazz was just trying to be helpful and that he was also probably a little tipsy. Perceptor forced a smile to his lips. “Perhaps you are right. I’ll be more open to the possibilities once I return.”_  
  
 _“Return?” Jazz asked._  
  
 _“I’m being dispatched with the Wrecker crew. Prowl is concerned about Kup’s mental stability, and since I’m responsible for the experimental repairs, he’s sending me along,” Perceptor replied._  
  
 _Jazz’s smile faded. “The Wreckers, huh?”_  
  
 _Perceptor nodded._  
  
 _“Well, just be careful. You come back in one piece, ‘kay?” Jazz playfully punched Perceptor in the arm._  
  
 _“I intend to,” Perceptor replied._  
  
…  
  
Perceptor dimly lit his optics in the darkness, wondering what in the world caused that particular memory file to surface. That version of his former self felt foreign and strange now, as if it had been someone else entirely. He glanced at Deadlock curled up at his side with one arm flopped over his middle. Any feelings he’d still harbored for Ratchet were long gone, erased by his time here and replaced with a growing attachment to Deadlock. Even if how he felt was simply a byproduct of his captivity, Perceptor no longer cared. At least here he felt wanted, cared for.   
  
“No...” Deadlock murmured. The arm over Perceptor suddenly squeezed him.  
  
Reaching up, Perceptor swept his fingers over Deadlock’s arm to offer comfort. He’d grown used to Deadlock’s restless recharges, doing what he could to soothe the dark memories that often haunted him.   
  
Grumbling, Deadlock’s body tensed. “Fraggers!” His ruby optics lit brightly, staring blankly at Perceptor for a brief second before recognition washed over his face. “Sorry.”  
  
Perceptor’s fingers continued to stroke the arm over him. “No need to apologize.”  
  
Deadlock’s optics dimmed as he frowned. “Stop being so nice to me.”  
  
Unable to help it, Perceptor winced at the sharp words.   
  
“Don’t deserve it,” Deadlock said as he pressed his face into Perceptor’s shoulder, offlining his optics.   
  
“Not true,” Perceptor replied.   
  
“You deserve better,” Deadlock mumbled against Perceptor’s plating, before nuzzling Perceptor’s shoulder. The tension bled from him and he relaxed against Perceptor, pressing his whole frame close again.   
  
Much of what Deadlock did and said was still mysterious to Perceptor, but he had learned that the bristled reactions were just a coping mechanism. That he wasn’t used to trusting anyone. Perceptor sort of envied that ability, since he’d always trusted far too willingly, and exposed himself to being hurt by naively handing over that trust to mechs like Ratchet. How Jazz had seen that as a virtue puzzled him even more now than it had back then.   
  
Deadlock’s systems began to softly hum as they idled in recharge. Sighing, Perceptor dimmed his optics, enjoying the feeling of being close to Deadlock. Taking pleasure in the little things, being all he really had now.   
  
...  
  
The routine and daily rhythm changed. The tense air between them faded away over the last few weeks, shifting to something more along the lines of comfortable familiarity. Perceptor’s painful memories and regrets were shoved deep down. He found it easier to live in denial than to allow his sorrow to hang over him, choosing to simply focus on the facts of the matter: He was alive and safe so long as he was at Deadlock’s side.   
  
It was Deadlock’s day off, and they’d left the apartment early in the morning to make their way to a rather desolate area beyond the city limits. When they’d left the apartment Perceptor asked where they were headed, but Deadlock only said it was a surprise as he slung a long metal case over his shoulder.  
  
Deadlock walked with a slight swagger a few paces in front of Perceptor, picking his way through the semi-debris filled roadway. There was a sureness in his steps, tough and yet elegant as he moved. Captivating to watch. Perceptor wondered what he must look like fighting these Swarm creatures he’d described. Did he move while fighting with that same assurance? That swagger?   
  
“It’s just up here,” Deadlock said as he veered to the right.   
  
Around a toppled wall there was an open area. In the distance what looked like training dummies and tables of varying heights were set up.   
  
“What is this place?” Perceptor asked.  
  
“Abandoned training facility.” Deadlock lifted the case strap off his shoulder and set it down on the ground.   
  
Confused, Perceptor canted his head. “Why are we here?”   
  
Deadlock popped the case open, revealing a small arsenal of varying weapons. He glanced up at Perceptor and half-smiled. “To practice.” He reached inside the case and pulled out the pieces to a long rifle, putting it together. Once he’d assembled it, he stood and held it out toward Perceptor. “Here.”  
  
“I assumed _you_ were going to practice, not me,” Perceptor replied, his optics focusing on the long rifle. “Besides, I don’t believe I’m supposed to handle any weaponry.”  
  
“We’re out in the middle of nowhere.” Deadlock stepped forward, pushing the rifle into Perceptor’s hands. “You look like a sniper-type to me.”  
  
“I do?” Perceptor asked, awkwardly holding the rifle. He’d only had basic training with pistols. In fact, he’d been rushed through all his training so they could get him assigned to the scientific research unit for the Autobots when he’d joined. He’d had some additional training under Kup’s supervision on his first short tour with the Wreckers before they’d been called back, but Kup’s version of training meant spending most of the time shooting the breeze, not actually shooting pistols.  
  
“For me, I like being up close and taking out my targets,” Deadlock replied with a dark-looking grin. “Being a sniper takes patience I don’t really have.”  
  
“This was not exactly what I was expecting we’d do,” Perceptor said as he tried to figure out how to grip the rifle.   
  
Deadlock chuckled. “Here, let me show you.” He walked over to one of the toppled walls behind them, hopping over it and motioning for Perceptor to join him. Perceptor followed, setting the rifle on the wall and then carefully climbing over. Deadlock patted the flatter part of the crumbled wall. “Set it up the here.”  
  
Perceptor did as he was directed, putting out the bipod to support the barrel. Deadlock reached over, correcting his grip on the rifle, then moved to stand behind him to correct his stance, gently nudging his legs with light taps.  
  
“Hold the back end against your shoulder,” Deadlock said. “It’s gonna recoil hard, but you’ll get used to it. Use the scope to take aim on one of the dummies.”  
  
Lifting the rifle up just enough so he could look through the scope, Perceptor scanned the distant training dummies, choosing the center-most one. Without knowing if this rifle had a curve to its shots or not, Perceptor decided to just angle it as accurately as possible and test fire.   
  
He squeezed the trigger.  
  
The shot rang out, and the rifle bucked hard into his shoulder. Perceptor almost lost his footing, but Deadlock was behind him, pressing a firm hand to the center of his back to steady him.  
  
“Nice shot,” Deadlock said.   
  
Perceptor stared at the toppled dummy in the distance. This was very different than trying to shoot on the run with pistols. This felt more calculated. More in his control. “I can see why you thought I’d like this.”  
  
The lingering hand on Perceptor’s back caused him to glance over his shoulder.   
  
Deadlock quirked a small smile. “Gotten to know you.”  
  
Perceptor nodded in reply, before turning forward and taking aim again. This was certainly the last thing Perceptor would have expected Deadlock to plan for them to do, but he appreciated the sentiment, more than he could truly express. Being treated as an equal, it made this afterlife feel almost normal. And that was what he’d come to view this as: an afterlife. His past growing more distant with each day as he continued to live on in this new, alien world with someone he’d come to trust and even care about.   
  
After a couple hours of unloading rounds, Deadlock started to pack up the guns and ammo he’d brought along. Perceptor quickly figured out how to take apart the rifle he’d been using and handed off the parts to Deadlock to pack away in his case.   
  
“This was enjoyable,” Perceptor commented.  
  
Deadlock glanced up and flashed a smile. He snapped the case shut and got to his feet, turning to face Perceptor. “Glad you had a good time. Plus, it’s better you know how to fight back if it ever comes to it.”  
  
“The war is over,” Perceptor replied. There was no reason to fight anymore.  
  
“Never know when things might change again,” Deadlock replied.   
  
That was true. Seeing how poor the conditions were in Megatron’s new world, things might eventually collapse. Though, Perceptor imagined it would take his own high ranking officers to overthrow him, and he had his doubts that would ever happen. “I suppose,” Perceptor replied.   
  
“Just remember, the choice will always be yours to fight or not,” Deadlock said, gaze sharp on Perceptor.  
  
Choose? Perceptor’s capacity for choice had long since been stripped of him. He stared at Deadlock, unsure what to say.  
  
“I know you think you’re weak, but--” Deadlock paused, his facial expression taking on much more serious tone. “--you aren’t. You’re stronger than you even realize.”  
  
Strange words coming from a mech that had willingly allowed himself to be harmed. Perceptor politely nodded, anyhow. He honestly felt pretty helpless most of the time, but that had slowly bothered him less and less. Not to say there weren’t moments when he missed his old life, though. Especially the times he’d hide in his lab to work on his projects and get lost in a web of complicated thought processes. But that life had been traded for this one. A life with Deadlock. A life where his intelligence no longer carried much value, but also one where he was treated with more attention and care than he’d ever known before. There was no middle ground it seemed.  
  
They walked back into the city. Perceptor fell in line behind Deadlock, keeping his head down and doing his best to resist the urge to look at everything around him.   
  
Unexpectedly, Deadlock slowed to a stop.  
  
Perceptor’s gaze lifted, seeing that Deadlock was looking at the storefront beside them. It was a small confectionery shop that opened recently, according to the sign in the window.  
  
“Ever have those before?” Deadlock asked, half turning to look at him.  
  
Perceptor nodded.   
  
“Wanna pick some out?”   
  
“Me?” Perceptor furrowed his brow. “You should choose the ones that _you_ like.”  
  
“Never had them before,” Deadlock replied, looking sort of embarrassed.   
  
Perceptor had come to treasure these rare moments when Deadlock could be so endearing. On one hand, he was a no nonsense, tough mech, and on the other his life before the war had deprived him of simple things that most mechs had enjoyed. “I’d be happy to help choose some,” he replied.  
  
They proceeded inside and stood side-by-side at the confectionary case, Perceptor explaining the differing kinds to Deadlock. The mech behind the counter patiently waited for Deadlock to decide, then took his order for an assorted box of ten that he picked out.   
  
The door chimed as it slid open. Perceptor tensed, seeing the large seeker, Thundercracker, walk in. He stepped closer to Deadlock.   
  
“Deadlock,” Thundercracker said, nodding his head in a greeting.  
  
“Thundercracker.” Deadlock barely turned to look at the seeker as he replied.   
  
Thundercracker’s attention then shifted to Perceptor as the mech behind the counter finished wrapping the order up and took Deadlock’s credits. The seeker’s gaze raked up and down Perceptor, making him uncomfortable. He stepped even closer to Deadlock, causing their arms to brush. Deadlock looked over and frowned at Perceptor, but then his expression turned to something more akin to concern.  
  
Whipping his attention back in Thundercracker’s direction, Deadlock scowled. “Stop staring.”  
  
“Your Autobot could use some plate smoothing,” Thundercracker replied, undeterred by Deadlock’s warning. “Aren’t you friends with Tremorwave? I’m sure he’d be able to tend to his plating.”  
  
“What I do with him is none of your business,” Deadlock replied. He grabbed the wrapped box of treats off the top of the counter.  
  
Thundercracker heaved a sigh, seemingly unimpressed by Deadlock’s attitude. “It isn’t. But I will say it’s refreshing to see another Autobot that’s not under sedation or being yanked around by a lead. It’s a shame his plating hasn’t been well tended to, though.”  
  
Deadlock stared at Thundercracker for a moment. “Whatever.” He turned to Perceptor, his angry expression softening. “Let’s go.”  
  
They exited to the street and walked in silence to the apartment building. Perceptor replayed Thundercracker’s words over in his mind. Another Autobot? What did that mean? Were there more like Jazz? He was the only one Perceptor had seen free to walk without a lead and not drugged, but he’d been with Soundwave.   
  
Inside the elevator, Deadlock looked at Perceptor. “That was his lame attempt at code.”  
  
Perceptor raised an optic ridge. “Code?”  
  
Deadlock nodded. “He’s got two Autobots. Tremor told me. But he takes pretty good care of them. Think he just wanted me to know he knew I don’t hurt you.”  
  
“Which two?” Perceptor asked.   
  
“Huh?” Deadlock asked.  
  
“You said he has two Autobots,” Perceptor replied.   
  
“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” The elevator opened and Deadlock stepped out, Perceptor following. “Just know him and Soundwave keep tabs on who owns Autobots. That’s what Tremor told me anyway.”  
  
Interesting. They were both high-ranking officers. Perceptor wondered how many more were in situations like his, with someone that wasn’t abusing them.   
  
Inside the apartment, Deadlock went over to his recliner and plopped down. He set the box of treats down on the small coffee table, and immediately broke the seal. “So what are these again?”  
  
Perceptor pushed the second recliner over from its spot near the window and then sat down. He leaned forward and pointed, describing their tastes again. “These are sweet. These are sour outside and sweet inside. These have a heated taste, much like high grade--”  
  
Deadlock grabbed one that were supposed to be like high grade and popped it in his mouth. Perceptor couldn’t help smiling a little at the concentrated-look that spread across Deadlock’s face as he chewed it, then swallowed.   
  
“Not bad,” Deadlock said as he picked a light yellow tinted one out of the box. “And this one?”  
  
“Acidic,” Perceptor replied.   
  
Deadlock was about to pop it into his mouth, but paused mid-motion. “Have some, too.”  
  
Perceptor nodded, and picked up a sour and sweet treat. These were his favorite. Before the war, he’d purchase an entire box of just these to celebrate a successful breakthrough in his research. He popped it into his mouth, humming his satisfaction at the mixture of tastes. It had been so long since he’d had one. It honestly felt like it had been lifetimes ago. He glanced over at Deadlock after swallowing.   
  
Quirking a half-smile, Deadlock picked up the other of the sweet and sour ones, holding it out. “I want to hear you make that sound again.”  
  
“Sound?” Perceptor asked, as he allowed Deadlock to place the treat in his hand.   
  
His optics darkened in hue. “That ‘hmmm’ sound,” Deadlock replied with a lustful-looking grin.  
  
Perceptor’s optics brightened, then dimmed. This was something else that had changed between them. While Deadlock never initiated their interfacing, he made his attraction to Perceptor known, flirting with him now and again. It boggled his mind that someone as handsome as Deadlock would find him attractive, but still, it felt nice.   
  
This afterlife was strange, but he certainly enjoyed it at times like this. These moments when he could almost believe that he wasn’t a slave, when Deadlock wasn’t hard-edged and gruff, when he could pretend that there was more between them. Almost believe that this relationship was real.   
  
...  
  
“You’ve got to stop fighting so up close to those Swarm,” Tremorwave commented as he finished patching a gash on Deadlock’s lower leg.  
  
Deadlock shrugged. He really wanted Tremorwave hurry up so he could get back to the apartment. Perceptor was probably starting to worry.  
  
Tremorwave wiped down the edges of the patch to remove excess flashing from his weld. He then leaned in close to inspect his work. “This’ll hold the plating until your autorepair mends the cut.” He got back to his feet, coiling up the cable to the welder.  
  
“Thanks.” Deadlock pushed to stand, trying out his full weight on the injury. “Still hurts.”  
  
“I bet. That was one nasty gash.” Tremorwave scooped up his supplies and moved to the nearby shelves, shoving them into a half-empty bin.  
  
Deadlock grimaced as he stared at the patch, hoping it would hold up all right during his next couple shifts.  
  
“Get this, the other day I was attempting a repair on an Autobot and took his collar off to get better access the damages, and next thing I knew I had Swindle’s goons swarming the apartment I was in! There’s sensor in those things that alerts him when it’s removed. Can you believe that? Be sure you don’t go removing _your_ Autobot’s collar,” Tremorwave said, chuckling. “It was quite a scene with me and his owner trying to explain it wasn’t some attempt at escape.”  
  
Deadlock nodded. “Noted.”  
  
“How _is_ your Autobot? He doing any better since I saw him?” Tremorwave asked.  
  
Better? Deadlock wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that. “He’s okay.”  
  
Snorting a laugh, Tremorwave shook his head. “Always a mech of few words.” Tremorwave turned to face Deadlock. “He probably needs some maintenance work. Why don’t you drop him off before your shift someday this week and pick him up after. Then he’d get out of that dank apartment for the day.” Tremorwave then grinned. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind a little _one-on-one_ time with him.”  
  
Deadlock narrowed his optics to slits. “He’s _not_ some pleasure bot,” he growled.  
  
Tremorwave held up his hands defensively, palms out. “I didn’t mean to say he was! I just think he’s... a nice mech, and yeah, kinda cute in his own way. I was just teasing!”    
  
Deadlock grunted at his friend. “Don’t joke about that.”  
  
Tremorwave’s friendly, easy-going facade lowered, revealing a concerned look. “I’m sorry, Deadlock. I really didn’t mean anything by it.” Tremorwave then canted his head. “Something you wanna tell me? ‘Cause you don’t usually get riled up at me like that.”  
  
Deadlock shook his head. “Things happened.”  
  
“Things?” Tremorwave asked. “What kind of things?”  
  
“Things I said I wasn’t gonna do, then... did,” Deadlock replied, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his admission.   
  
“Ah, I see. So, we talking things along the lines of just messing around or is there something more to it than that?” Tremorwave asked. “More like Gasket?”  
  
Deadlock met his friend’s gaze. He hated that Tremorwave knew him this well. Knew all his deepest pains and secrets thanks to how far into the past their friendship stretched. “More.”  
  
A smile then spread across Tremorwave’s lips.  
  
Deadlock scowled. It had become so much more than he even wanted to admit to himself. Yet, here he was, worried about taking too long at Tremorwave’s, looking forward to getting home to see Perceptor. This mech he’d intended to only save from a painful death was now an integral part of his life.   
  
Tremorwave crossed his arms over his chest. “Took you long enough. I was starting to worry you’d never get over what happened with Gasket.”  
  
“Who said I did?” Deadlock replied. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”  
  
Confusion clouded Tremorwave’s face. “It matters.”  
  
“Perceptor will never be mine like Gasket was. I’m not an idiot.” Deadlock stared down at the floor. “He’s got no choice other than to be with me. I made that choice for him the second Swindle took my creds. It’ll never be anything other than what it is.”  
  
“It must be exhausting to be so pessimistic all the time,” Tremorwave replied. “It wouldn’t kill you to enjoy yourself once in awhile.”  
  
Deadlock sighed again. The fear he’d lose Perceptor like how he’d lost Gasket loomed over him, killing any real ‘enjoyment’. Darkness and a feeling of doom seeped into the edges of his time with Perceptor; a worry that his new found contentment could be shattered at any moment if he wasn’t careful.   
  
“Well, you should be getting back to your Autobot, hm? And... we’re okay, right?” Tremorwave asked after a moment.  
  
“Yeah,” Deadlock replied.  
  
“Good.” Tremorwave’s easy-going smile softened. “You still wanna drop him off this week?”  
  
Deadlock vaguely frowned. “I’ll let you know.”  
  
“All right. Offers stands,” Tremorwave replied.  
  
…  
  
The warmth of Deadlock’s presence pulled away. Perceptor dimly lit his optics, watching Deadlock sit up. He hated this time of day, when Deadlock would leave for his shift. Perceptor quietly vented air from his intakes and offlined his optics again, shifting to lie on his side. These moments of parting hurt more now that Deadlock had taken to curling up and holding him when they recharged each night. No more accidental crossing the space between them while he relived memories of some other lover. It was now part of their pseudo-relationship to be physically close.  
  
Fingers brushed over Perceptor’s shoulder. “See you later.”  
  
Perceptor relit his optics as he looked up at Deadlock and nodded.  
  
Deadlock lingered for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something more. Instead, he gave Perceptor’s arm a squeeze, then stood.   
  
Perceptor didn’t move, watching as Deadlock walked out and listening to the front door open and close. He considered recharging more, but he really wasn’t that tired. “May as well clean up a little.”  
  
After scrubbing down the wash rack stall, he stepped out to pat himself dry when he heard the front door open again. He straightened his posture, turning up his audios. Steps much heavier sounding than Deadlock’s moved through the living area. The only mech aside from him and Deadlock that had ever been in this apartment was Tremorwave. Surely Deadlock would have mentioned if his medic friend was going to stop by, wouldn’t he? Listening carefully, he could tell by the gate of the mech in the other room that it wasn’t Tremorwave, either. They were the steps of a much heavier mech.   
  
Wandering to the door, Perceptor’s gaze met with a stranger’s visored gaze. The intruder stood at the entrance to the berthroom, his red visor deepening in hue.  
  
“Deadlock bought a pet? _Interesting_ ,” the large mech said.   
  
“Who are you?” Perceptor asked.   
  
“Turmoil.”   
  
_Turmoil..._ That was the mech that had harmed Deadlock a few weeks ago. The one that had abused him. Staring at the hulking mech, Perceptor gained a better appreciation for what Deadlock must have endured.   
  
Stepping into the berth room, Turmoil sat his large frame down on the berth. “Come here, little pet. I’m curious to see what he’s trained you to do.”   
  
Perceptor’s mind raced. What was he going to do? What was going to happen to him? Deadlock wasn’t due back for hours.  
  
“Here. _Now_ ,” Turmoil said, pointing to the floor at his feet.  
  
Reluctantly, Perceptor moved into the room, stopping just in front of Turmoil. The large mech’s visored gaze raked over Perceptor’s frame from helm to pede.   
  
“Kind of boring looking. I suppose you were all he could afford, hm?” Turmoil said. “On your knees.”  
  
Perceptor remained standing, realizing what might happen if he did drop down. _No._ He didn’t want this. Without a comm link, without a weapon, he was helpless. Unable to defend himself or call for help.  
  
Turmoil pushed to stand, then shoved down on Perceptor’s shoulders, forcing him to drop to his knees. “I said, _on your knees_.”   
  
He then undid the cover to his interface array, spike jutting outward. With wide optics, Perceptor stared at the large piece of black-colored hardware a few micrometers from his face.   
  
“Well. What are you waiting for? I can see Deadlock fails at training his pets as much as he fails in my berth.” Turmoil growled. “My spike, your mouth. Go on.”  
  
“No,” Perceptor replied, his fear bleeding into his voice.   
  
Without hesitation, Turmoil slapped Perceptor’s face hard, sending the gyros in his head off-kilter and the room spinning around him for a moment. Wincing, his hands curled into fists on his thighs. A mixture of fear and defiance swirled in his chest.   
  
_No..._ No, he didn’t want to be a victim of this mech. This mech that had harmed Deadlock. “You’re the one that hurt him. Burned his plating, misaligned his hip, and covered him in your... fluid. Treated him like a _thing_ not a mech,” Perceptor said, shaking his head, his defiance overriding his fear.  
  
Turmoil grabbed hold of Perceptor’s chin, forcing him to look up. “He _is_ a thing. A beast to be tamed. Don’t be fooled into thinking otherwise. Did you know that Deadlock used to be a pleasure bot? A weak little mech that sucked spike in the alleys to earn enough credits just to go boost his processor into oblivion? Ironic he’s now got his own little pleasure bot, no? You will suck my spike, or else I will beat you until you obey. Understand?”    
  
 _...the choice will always be yours to fight or not. … I know you think you’re weak, but you aren’t. You’re stronger than you even realize ..._  
  
An imperfect plan then formed in Perceptor’s mind. He didn’t want to be violated and raped, and at that moment he decided he would fight, despite knowing he was probably going to lose.   
  
Frowning, Perceptor nodded.   
  
Turmoil let go of his chin, and thrust his spike forward so it pushed against Perceptor’s lips. He opened his mouth wide, attempting to encompass the large girth. Turmoil pushed on the back of Perceptor’s helm, shoving it in. It was no wonder Deadlock had been walking around in so much pain. The size difference was rather extreme.   
  
Tumoil hissed air from his intakes, sounding pleased. “Very nice, your mouth is larger than his.”   
  
Perceptor offlined his optics. It was now or never. If he was going to fight, this would be his only chance.   
  
He clamped his dentia down, teeth biting so hard into the spike he tasted energon.   
  
Howling, Turmoil tried to shove him off. Hands gripped down on his helm attempting to pry him loose. Perceptor refused to unclench his jaw, though. This was not just his way of fighting, but his way of avenging Deadlock. If he could damage the thing that brought all that pain he’d endured, then Perceptor will have at least done something for the mech that had come to mean so much to him, even if it was largely symbolic.  
  
A string of semi-coherent curses flew from Turmoil’s vocalizer, as he continued to wrench on Perceptor’s helm. Finally, Turmoil managed to push with enough force to disengage his jaw’s grip. The sound of metal scraping echoed in his audios as he fell backwards onto his aft. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which left glowing streaks of energon behind.   
  
“You little glitched up fragger!” Turmoil bent forward and cupped his damaged spike with one large hand while he pulled a weapon off his hip, pointing it at Perceptor with the other. “You’re going to pay for your insolence!”  
  
A blast exploded from the weapon, and Perceptor instinctually turned his body, but it wasn’t fast enough. The shot, aimed at his head, tore through his right optic, knocking him flat to the floor. A crackling burn radiated outward from the injury, which hurt, but not as much as he expected it to.   
  
With his one working optic, he watched Turmoil stagger over to where he lay, weapon this time pointed to his chest. “Disobedience is not tolerated.”   
  
Turmoil pulled the trigger, a blast tearing through Perceptor’s chestplate.   
  
The world seemed to shatter around him. Pain turned to cold numbness. His body’s systems sent into a state of disarray as he felt his grasp on consciousness slipping away from him. So this was it. He was finally going to die. For the most part he was at peace with the notion of it, though he did have one regret: Not being able to see Deadlock one last time. At what point had he fallen for him, he wondered.   
  
Memories of the last stand the Autobots took flickered in his mind. The battlefield. Him, running in a panicked flee like a scared turbofox. At least this time he will have died fighting for something that had come to mean the world to him.    
  
He’d fought for Deadlock.  
  
…  
  
Deadlock slammed his locker at the base closed, his weapons locked inside, when his comm link pinged him. He froze, recognizing the signal.   
  
::Turmoil?::  
  
::Your little slagging pet bit me!:: Turmoil bellowed.  
  
Pet? Deadlock’s optics brightened. Perceptor...   
  
::Been in the medical clinic since earlier this morning. If you think for a moment I’m letting you get away with not only buying a pet behind my back, but then siccing him on me--::  
  
::Siccing? What are you talking about?:: Deadlock interrupted.   
  
::He bit my spike!:: Turmoil yelled over the comm line. ::I took corrective action. Have fun cleaning it up.::  
  
The line cut out.   
  
A panic Deadlock had never known before gripped his spark. He sprinted out of the base, transforming and speeding across town to his apartment building. The elevator seemed to take an eternity before it opened up to his floor, and he raced down the hallway, bursting into his apartment.   
  
“Perceptor!”   
  
Glancing around the living area, there was no sign of him.   
  
“Perceptor!!”   
  
He jogged down the hallway to the berthroom and stopped cold. Perceptor’s body was lying in a puddle of energon; his chest blown wide open, his face half missing. It was Gasket all over again. A mech he’d grown to care about that he’d once again failed to protect.   
  
“No.... Please. Not again,” he whispered. Approaching, Deadlock felt his spark ache within his chest. His optics were then drawn to something glowing in the midst of the carnage: Perceptor’s spark. Dropping to his knees beside him, Deadlock lightly touched the spark casing, seeing the undeniable glow inside. “You aren’t dead?”  
  
He immediately opened his comm line.   
  
::Deadlock? What’s up?:: Tremorwave said in a friendly tone.  
  
::Tremor, get your shuttle and meet me on the roof,:: he replied.  
  
::I was about to go meet up with--::  
  
::Now! Perceptor’s been shot. You have to save him!:: Deadlock said, his tone sharp and insistant.   
  
::Alright, calm down. I’ll be right there,:: Tremorwave replied.   
  
The line closed. Deadlock cupped the side of Perceptor’s face, seeing that a shot that had gone through his optic. The damages were extensive. There were pieces of twisted plating and splattered energon everywhere. It was unbelievable that Perceptor was still alive.   
  
Deadlock leaned down, lips close the audio on the other side of Perceptor’s helm from the injury. “Don’t die on me. Fight. Please... I don’t want to be alone,” Deadlock whispered. “I don’t want you to leave me. _Fight_.”


	8. Finding Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You said a long, long time ago  
> You were happy being someone.  
> Let's go far, far, far from home,  
> I'll be glad to be with someone.”  
> North by North, Faded Paper Figures

This was all his fault. All of it. Deadlock sat on the floor propped against the wall, staring at the regeneration tank. Perceptor’s limp body hung in the aqua-tinted gel with wires attached to his open wounds. All Deadlock could think was how this was all his fault. Turmoil was his burden to bear, not Perceptor’s. He’d wanted to protect this mech, keep him safe, and he’d failed.  

Footsteps echoed from across the room. Tremorwave wandered in, crossing over to Deadlock and crouching down to set a glass of energon beside him. He stood back up and sipped his own serving as he glanced over at Perceptor in the tank.

“That is one surprisingly tough mech,” Tremorwave commented.

Deadlock softly sighed. “Yeah.”

When Tremorwave showed up at the apartment after he’d called, he just stood by and watched as his friend clamped down broken lines and did his best to stop the hemorrhaging. He’d felt so helpless. So useless. Too weak to exact revenge on Turmoil, he’d become a bystander once again. At least this time, the mech his spark was tangled with would survive, unlike Gasket.

Tremorwave glanced down at Deadlock. “If you don’t have that energon, I’ll come back in here, sedate your aft, and fill your tank for you.”

Locking gazes with his old friend, Deadlock knew Tremorwave wasn’t kidding. In fact, back in the gutters when Deadlock was completely blitzed out on boosters, half the time he’d wake up to a full fuel tank and basic repairs.

“Don’t need to do that,” Deadlock replied, picking up the glass and gulping down the contents.

Tremorwave walked over to the tank, tapping the control panel to check the readings.

Deadlock set the emptied glass down with a thud on the floor beside him. “How much longer will he need to be in there?”

“Hard to say. His numbers are definitely improving, though. Unfortunately, I don’t have the proper supplies to repair some of the injuries that the tank and his autorepair won’t be able to fix.” Tremorwave glanced over his shoulder at Deadlock. “You need to start thinking about what you plan on doing once he’s back online.”

“Plan on doing?” Deadlock asked.

“No offense, but I like my privacy. And you guys can’t stay here forever,” Tremorwave replied.

Deadlock shifted his gaze to Perceptor. He’d not been back to the apartment or even his work shift in three days now. At this point, even in Megatron’s good graces, he knew he was in trouble.

Tremorwave walked over to where Deadlock sat. “May I make a suggestion?”

Deadlock stared up at his friend, towering over him. “What?”

“You’ve got a lot of creds saved up, right?” Tremorwave asked.

Deadlock deeply frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

“Why don’t I get you two a starship? Just a little one. And then you can leave Cybertron,” Tremorwave replied.

“Where would we _go_?” Deadlock asked.

“I don’t know, but you guys can’t stay here. It’s not safe for any of to us. Plus, if you leave then you’ll finally be free of Turmoil,” Tremorwave replied.

Free of Tumoil. That was never going to happen no matter how far Deadlock went and he knew it. Frowning, Deadlock glanced back at Perceptor in the tank. He could, however, free Perceptor. Maybe they could even find those Autobots he’d mentioned that got off planet before the end of the war, and return him to them. Save him from any more collateral damage and misery.

Deadlock reached into his subspace pocket, pulling out his card with his credits. He held it up and Tremorwave grabbed the opposite end of the card, but Deadlock didn’t let go.

“Even if you manage to get us a suitable ship, how the frag do we get past the security network to get off planet?” Deadlock asked.

Tremorwave grinned. “I’ve got friends in _high_ places.”

Deadlock canted his head. “Soundwave?”

Tremorwave nodded and Deadlock let go of the card.

It wasn’t the ideal solution, but it was better than staying here and putting his longtime friend in danger. Besides, Perceptor would never be free here. Getting him off planet was the only way to grant him his freedom again. Deadlock wanted to be sure Perceptor had at least that. He more than deserved that right be returned to him.

… 

The first sight Perceptor saw when he onlined his only working optic were a pair of golden optics staring down at him.

“Hello there,” Tremorwave said.

“Hello,” Perceptor replied, vaguely confused. Apparently he was at Tremorwave’s compound, lying on a berth, but how had he arrived here? His last static filled memories floated to the surface: images of Turmoil shoving his spike into Perceptor’s mouth, his biting down with unrestrained fury, and the painful blasts to his head and chest. “Why am I not dead?”

“No clue. By all rights you should be, especially considering how long you were laid out on Deadlock’s floor with that hole through your chest, but by the grace of Primus ~~,~~ or whatever you believe, your spark was still pulsing when I got there.” Tremorwave held a small piece of metal over the half of Perceptor’s face that had been shot. “I stemmed the damages as best I could, then tossed you in the regen tank for about a week. I also made you a new chestplate, but I’m afraid it’s not as strong a metal as your old one.”

“And my optic?” Perceptor asked.

Tremorwave sadly smiled. “I can’t repair it. I don’t have the parts for something that complex. I’m making a patch to cover the damaged area right now.”

So that was what the metal piece was for. “Where’s Deadlock?”

“Prepping the ship I got you guys,” Tremorwave replied.

“Ship?” Perceptor asked.

“Yep. Nice little vessel I found for you two.” The medic wandered over to a metal grinder, clicking it on and smoothing the edges of the small piece of metal in his hands.

Perceptor’s confusion deepened. Why did they need a ship?

Tremorwave turned the machine off and inspected the patch as he walked back over to Perceptor.

“A ship for what?” Perceptor asked.

Tremorwave glanced at him. “To get the slag off Cybertron.” He then flashed a grin. “How about we play twenty questions when I’m done with your repairs? I wasn’t really expecting you to online quite yet, so...” Tremorwave fiddled with the settings on the medical berth. “Lights out, my friend.”

“But--” Perceptor was cut short as he felt the electrical charge from the berth surge over his frame. Before he could protest, he succumbed to the effects and offlined again.

…

The next time Perceptor onlined, he was greeted by a pair of red optics that were watching him. Perceptor felt a huge sense of relief wash through him at seeing Deadlock.

“Hello,” Perceptor said.

“Hey there.” Deadlock reached out, pressing a hand to the center of Perceptor’s new chest plate. He looked tense and worried, which in turn worried Perceptor.

“Thought I’d lost you,” Deadlock finally said.  

“Thought I’d _lost_ ,” Perceptor replied as he laid his hand over Deadlock’s, feeling the warmth of it between his fingers and new chestplate.

“Almost did.” Deadlock shook his head. “Turmoil is _not_ a mech you can win a physical fight with. Not without a really big gun, anyway.”

“I knew that.” Perceptor dimmed his optic. “I wasn’t about to be violated, though.”

Deadlock deeply frowned. “So he didn’t, you know...?”

“He tried,” Perceptor replied.

“And that’s when you bit him?” Deadlock asked, raising an optic ridge.

Surprised, Perceptor’s one optic brightened. “How did you know?”

“He commed me. Screamed at me about what you did.” Deadlock then half-smiled. “You definitely get points for style.”

Perceptor sighed air from his intakes. “Yes, well, at the time I assumed I was going to die. Why not punish the abuser where he’d feel it most?”

“You certainly did.” Deadlock’s tense demeanor seemed to finally slip off his shoulders. “I’m just relieved you’re still here... with me.”

In so few words, Deadlock was able to stir Perceptor’s spark. Whether this was real or not, Perceptor wasn’t sure he’d ever really know. In his mind he knew any bond he felt was based on his need for survival and their prolonged time together, but his spark argued otherwise. His spark fluttered and called out for this mech. It was a reaction lacking in logic, but also full of emotion that he’d never felt for anyone before.

“Tremor told you about the ship?” Deadlock asked.

“Yes,” Perceptor replied. “Where will we go, though?”

Deadlock’s fingers gently flexed over Perceptor’s chest. “I was thinking we could find those Autobots that you said escaped.”

“The probability of locating them at this point in time is extremely low,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock turned his hand palm side up and grasped Perceptor’s hand. “Might as well try.”

Perceptor gave a squeeze back. “I suppose so.”

Truth was, Perceptor would go wherever Deadlock led. He wasn’t entirely sure leaving the planet was the right course of action, but it was better than staying here. At least they could get away from Turmoil, and Deadlock would no longer have to suffer at his hands. Perceptor realized that, in a round about way, his actions were protecting Deadlock. That in itself, made the risk he took and his near death worth it in his mind.

…

Undulating ribbons of warm water ran down Perceptor’s plating from the sprayer. The heated water felt good on his stiff and sore joints. A week without movement along with his repairs had left him feeling achy and tired. He stared at the dingy, stained walls of Tremorwave’s washrack. He was apparently as cleanly as Deadlock, which was not at all. Unlike the splattered of guts Perceptor had grown used to scrubbing, these stains were older, layered. Many were probably energon stains from mechs the medic had his hands inside to repair. Possibly other Autobots. A shiver ran down his spinal unit at the thought.

“You alright in there?”

Perceptor turned to glance through the hazy glass door of the stall. Deadlock’s head leaned into the washrack room from the doorway.

“I’m fine,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock sheepishly smiled. “Been in here a while. Just wanted to make sure.”

Perceptor simply nodded.

There was a moment of hesitation, but then Deadlock ducked back out.

Reaching up, Perceptor turned the flow of water off. He slid the glass door open and stepped out of the stall, grabbing a thankfully clean drying cloth. As he patted down his frame with the cloth, he caught sight of his movements in his peripheral and glanced over. A full length mirror was mounted on the wall beside him. Deadlock didn’t even have a mirror in his apartment.

Perceptor turned and moved closer, staring at the mech in the reflection. This mech had no shoulder mount, a mismatched chest plate, and piece of metal plating over the right optic should be. This mech was _him_. A mangled, misshapen version of a mech he’d once been.

He was literally losing himself piece by piece. That sadness he’d managed to bottle and push down deep inside suddenly roared to the surface. Tears pooled on his one optic. How many of his fellow Autobots had died? Why was he still here? What was the point of being here? Why wasn’t he dead? He _shouldn’t_ be alive anymore. Each time he’d stood at the edge of death, he’d been dragged back, but what was the point? To be with a mech he’d developed feelings for but that was so closed off he’d never find any true happiness with? He’d been ready to die when he chose to fight Turmoil. Ready for this afterlife, this _shadow_ of a life, to finally end.

“Perceptor?”

His gaze snapped to the source of the voice. Deadlock stood in the doorway, optics glowing a bright red. He looked worried.

A tear escaped Perceptor’s working optic, and he quickly wiped it away. He hurt. Not just his body, but his spark. Looking back at his reflection, all he saw were his festering internal doubts and survival guilt eating him from the inside out.

Fingers touched his arm and he jerked, startled. Deadlock snapped his hand back as if he’d been burnt.

“You in pain? Should I go get Tremor?” Deadlock asked.

Perceptor snorted a mirthless laugh. Pain. Yes, very much so, but not the kind Deadlock meant. “Is he able to repair broken psyches?”

“Perceptor...” Deadlock’s concerned look shifted to something more akin to empathy.

“It’s rather overwhelming to see myself is all.” Perceptor quickly sucked in a gust of air and let it escape his intakes slowly, trying to steady himself in the midst of the rising tide of his emotions.

Stepping close, Deadlock reached up, cupping Perceptor’s face in his hands and staring deeply into his optics. “I...” He frowned, looking unsure how to word what he wanted to say.

Perceptor expected Deadlock to say something about what it takes to be a survivor. To buck up and bear it. After all, Deadlock was a survivor. He knew what it took to hang on when there was nothing left. So it came as a complete surprise when instead Deadlock pulled him down into a _kiss_.

Shocked, Perceptor didn’t immediately respond. After a moment the warmth over his lips melted away his initial surprise and he began to gently mouth back. Deadlock parted his lips, pulling Perceptor’s apart as well. Their glossa met for the first time, tentatively touching at first, before entwining. Perceptor’s hands found Deadlock’s waist, holding on tight as if he were the only solid thing left to grasp onto. They’d interfaced, and Deadlock’s mouth had been on just about every micrometer of Perceptor’s frame at this point, save his lips. For some reason Deadlock never kissed him, until now.

Eventually, Deadlock pulled back, ending the long, lovely kiss. Perceptor stared into his crimson optics, his spark pulsing wildly with all his desire and affection for this one mech, a sensation temporarily blotting out his pain.

Deadlock gently pulled Perceptor’s helm forward, so their foreheads met. “I’m not good with words. I hope you understand.”

It was then that Perceptor realized the meaning behind Deadlock’s kiss. In place of words, Deadlock’s action spoke of his true feelings for Perceptor. A barrier had fallen, exposing an attachment to Perceptor that ran deep. It felt so amazing to know his feelings for Deadlock were not one-sided.  

“I believe I understand,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock half-smiled in response.

They stood in silence, staring into one another’s optics for a long moment. No words could come close to expressing the emotion now gripping Perceptor’s spark. Primus help him, he was _in love_ with Deadlock.

“You look tired,” Deadlock said, breaking the silence.

“I am,” Perceptor replied.

Deadlock pulled back and unhooked Perceptor’s hand from his hip, lacing their fingers together. “Come on.” He took a step, gently pulling Perceptor. “There’s a berth in the next room over.”

…

Perceptor had almost immediately offlined once he laid down on the spare berth. Just like all the rooms in Tremorwave’s place, his recovery room also housed piles of various junk that were stacked up against the walls. At least this spare berth was nice and large, fitting them both.

Deadlock lay on his side, gazing at Perceptor. Warmth radiated from Perceptor’s plating as his autorepair worked hard to finish mending what it could. He’d seen Perceptor despondent before, but this time felt different. This time it was _his_ fault. He’d failed to protect him. The guilt burned inside chest, hurting in a way he’d not felt in...eons. Not since Gasket had been killed before his optics.

Faded memories of his life with Gasket no longer hurt how they once had. Perceptor wasn’t a replacement by any means, but there was no more denying how he felt about him. He’d broken his own rule about not becoming emotionally attached and all he wanted now was to save Perceptor from any more harm. Even if, in the end, that meant saving Perceptor from himself and the baggage named Turmoil he was lugging around.  

He dimmed his optics and pressed close to Perceptor’s warm frame. _Never meant for this to happen,_ he thought. _I’m a burden no one should have to bear,_ especially _you._

.o.o.o.

_Lying half draped over Drift in the large, comfortable berth, Gasket sighed air from his intakes and smiled. “Thank you for all this.”_

_Drift had rented them a room for the night. A safe place they could be together without the worries and stress of their life in the gutters. They’d already made full use of the washrack, and interfaced twice on the berth. “This is me thanking you, though,” Drift replied, running his fingers over Gasket’s arm._

_“Thanking me?” Gasket chuckled. “I didn’t do anything. Well, that’s not entirely true.” Gasket wriggled his hips against Drift’s side._

_Drift smiled, shaking his head at Gasket. “Not that, you glitch. This is thanking you for helping me.” Drift had given up boosting and selling his body for credits to be clear-headed and clean for Gasket. He’d even paid for this room by selling his last stash of boosters._

_Gasket pushed up onto his one elbow, propping his head up in his hand. “You know, you mean the world to me. Seeing you like this, sober and happy, is all the thanks I’d ever need.”_

_Drift had no hope left before he met Gasket. He’d not cared at all what happened to him, taking huge risks just for a fix. A rented room as a thank you hardly felt like it was enough. He wanted to do so much more for Gasket. Show him that he’d saved Drift’s life from the despair that was eating him piece by piece. But using words to express how he felt were never his strong suit. He fumbled with them most of the time, never managing to say what he meant. Not like Gasket seemed to be able to._

_Reaching up, Drift tugged Gasket down by the side of his helm into a deep kiss. Gasket made a soft whine, and parted his lips, allowing their glossae to entwine. Nothing compared to how Gasket made Drift feel. All the boosters on the planet were no replacement for how his spark seemed to sing inside his chest for this mech. He felt alive and vital now, instead of a half-empty shell._

_As their kiss broke, Drift stared into Gasket’s brilliant and beautiful optics. “You make me happy,” Drift finally said._

_Gasket smiled. It was that bright, incandescent smile that seemed to warm Drift to his very core. “You make me happy, too. Just promise me that no matter what, you’ll always be you.”_

_“I’ll try my best,” Drift replied._

…

“It’s a great little ship, isn’t it?” Tremorwave set down a container of emergency medical supplies on the floor just inside the entrance.

Perceptor walked past the medic to the cockpit area and stared at the controls, mentally taking stock of the small ship’s capabilities. To avoid being followed, he would need to plot a complicated course, sending them the wrong direction first and around some of the semi-local planetary bodies to throw off any unwanted company.

He sat himself down in the pilot’s seat, hissing at how stiff his joints still felt. He reached up and touched the metal patch over his missing optic, wishing there had been a way to repair it. Programming with one optic wasn’t an issue, but if he needed to fight, he knew his aim would be off, whether shooting a rifle or just trying to throw a punch. Heaving a sigh, he pushed those thoughts to the edges of his mind and began to work on inputting a course.

The sounds of footsteps stopped just behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, Perceptor saw Deadlock standing with his arms folded over his chest.

Deadlock canted his head. “Tremor said we have a window for leaving in about an hour.”

Perceptor nodded. “I will have plotted the routes completed in a few minutes.”

“You sure you feel up to traveling?” Deadlock asked, looking concerned. “We can delay it if you need a little more time.”

Firmly shaking his head, Perceptor had no doubts it was time to leave. Waiting only gave that aft, Turmoil, more time to locate them. “My body is as repaired as it can be given the circumstances. It’s best we leave.”

Deadlock’s optics darkened as he nodded in agreement.

A short time later, their preparations were finally completed: the ship’s small cargo was stocked with energon, ample weaponry stowed on-board in various locations, and emergency supplies for medical care were loaded. They had everything they needed for a very long trip.

Standing on the entry ramp, Perceptor and Deadlock said their last farewells to Tremorwave.

“Here!” Tremorwave shoved a container in Deadlock’s hands. “I know it’s not something you’ve probably ever played with before, but I bet Perceptor can show you how it works.”

Pushing the lid off, Deadlock looked confused as he gazed into the box. He turned, showing Perceptor the container’s contents. Perceptor instantly recognized the item. “Ah, the classic game of strategy, ‘Go’.”

“A game?” Deadlock looked thoroughly befuddled.

Tremorwave laughed. “Gonna be trapped with each other for quite a while. You’ll need something to do other than ‘facing to pass the time.”

Deadlock growled his disapproval at his friend’s comment.

Tremorwave playfully punched Deadlock’s arm then walked down the ramp, clearly unconcerned about riling Deadlock up with his teasing. He turned to face them after he hopped off the end of the ramp and waved. “Good luck, you two. Soundwave will send you clearance in about 10 minutes. He’s going to use a dead mech’s name for your call to take off, ‘Doubledealer’.”

Perceptor shyly waved back and then followed Deadlock back inside the ship. After dropping the container on the floor, Deadlock tapped the controls, closing the ship’s door and pulling in the ramp.

“Let’s get the frag off this rock,” Deadlock said as he looked over at Perceptor.

Perceptor couldn’t help the vague smile that curved his lips. A part of Perceptor preferred it this way, being alone with Deadlock. It was what he’d become more accustomed to now. Even if they never found his comrades, Perceptor felt a sense of comfort knowing that he’d be with Deadlock.

...

After they completed the flight path that took them around the first of what looked like three rogue planets in the navigation settings, Deadlock settled back in his seat. He glanced at Perceptor, who was scrolling through communications logs, making sure nothing strange had been transmitted during their take off. Deadlock figured nothing would be amiss, seeing as Tremorwave did have friends in very high places. He was confident Soundwave would bury any information identifying them, but it was nice to see Perceptor preoccupied with something other than scrubbing a washrack stall for once.

His gaze wandered to the collar still around Perceptor’s neck. They were well out of frequency range now, and Deadlock decided it was time to remove that fragging thing. “Be right back,” Deadlock said, swiveling his seat and pushing to stand.

Perceptor gave him a small nod, his one optic never leaving the screen as he continued to comb the logs.

Deadlock walked down the middle of the ship, stopping at the storage closet and punching the code to open it. The door snapped back to reveal the medical supply containers. He removed the lid to the top one, and dug around the messy pile of items. “Primus Tremor,” he mumbled. “Can’t even keep a box organized...” After some digging, he finally located something that would work: an awl.

Returning to the front cockpit area with the awl in hand, Deadlock gestured with his hand. “Perceptor, stand up a sec.”

Glancing at Deadlock, Perceptor frowned. “For what reason?”

“Just stand up,” Deadlock replied, half-smiling.

Perceptor did as he was asked and turned in his seat, standing up. Deadlock leaned in close, looking for a seam where the collar had been locked in place. He reached up, gently touching it as his gaze scanned it carefully.

“An awl?” Perceptor asked.

“There it is,” Deadlock said, lifting the awl and sticking the pointed end into the thin line he hoped was the latch not the hinge for the collar. It took some leverage, but he was careful, not wanting to accidentally slip and hurt Perceptor, as he wriggled the point of the awl into the seam. Finally, he managed break something inside and collar’s lock snapped open, allowing it to fall from Perceptor’s neck.

Grasping it before it dropped to the floor, Perceptor held the object in his hand, staring at it.

“Don’t need that thing anymore,” Deadlock commented.

Perceptor reached up with his other hand, rubbing his neck slowly.

“Never should have been on you in the first place,” Deadlock said, unsure how to read Perceptor’s reaction.

Turning to look at Deadlock, Perceptor’s one optic dimmed. He almost looked upset. Confused, Deadlock frowned at him. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, after all he’d just officially freed Perceptor, but was unable to say anything before Perceptor leaned forward and planted his lips on Deadlock’s in a tender kiss.

Surprised, Deadlock’s one hand lifted instinctively to push Perceptor away, but that reaction quickly faded as he gave into the kiss, gently mouthing Perceptor’s warm lips back. Instead, he pressed his hand flat to the repaired chestplate. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised, not after he’d kissed Perceptor in the washrack, but the surprise wasn’t in the kiss itself. It was in the fact that Perceptor _initiated_ it. That despite everything this mech had been through, his first act as an officially free mech was _choosing_ to kiss him. The line of master and slave had been erased. They were simply two mechs genuinely harboring feelings for one another..

The kiss finally broke and Perceptor pulled back, staring into Deadlock’s optics with his one optic darting between them. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Welcome,” Deadlock whispered back.

Letting the collar drop to the floor, Perceptor placed both hands on Deadlock’s waist and leaned in close, ghosting his lips over Deadlock’s, expressing a level of affection he’d never experienced from Perceptor before. Deadlock greedily pressed forward, and their mouths met again, this time betraying his intense attraction and desire. Sliding his one hand up, Deadlock cupped his face as he allowed himself to succumb to the moment. He didn’t deserve an ounce of this affection from Perceptor, but he couldn’t help but cling to the offering.

Perceptor wasn’t Gasket. Deadlock knew that, but this relationship between them had renewed something inside his spark he’d thought was long dead. All he wanted now was to give Perceptor some sort of happiness, even if that meant Deadlock’s own spark break down the line. He’d do what it took to ensure Perceptor didn’t slide back into that deponent state from before. Deadlock refused to be a source of pain for Perceptor

Deadlock had lost his grasp on hope when he watched Gasket die before his optics, left floating in a sea of darkness for so long. Perceptor was so different from Gasket in so many ways, but he had that same light and hope Deadlock had almost forgotten existed. He’d do whatever it took to help keep that hope shining inside Perceptor.


	9. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn for the worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violent content, including rape, ahead, please be warned. But don't fret too much, I don't write tragic fic.

Body arching beneath Deadlock, Perceptor grasped desperately at his plating. His valve fluttered around the invading force between his legs. Lips met and melded together in a heated kiss as Deadlock slowed his thrusts. Unbridled desire had been released between them when Perceptor was set free. These last two weeks on the ship alone together had been filled with more passion than Perceptor had ever experienced in his entire lifetime. He loved this mech, even if he was unable to tell him that.

The kiss broke, and Deadlock gazed into Perceptor’s face as he renewed his faster pace. Perceptor was quickly rendered a helpless, writhing mass as he felt his body reaching climax. Fingers dug into Deadlock’s sides as he rolled his head back against the berth, mouth gaping as he whined. It took only a few more thrusts, pushing him toward the precipice, before he tumbled over the edge, overloading. Contorting beneath Deadlock he moaned, swimming in the waves of pleasure rolling over his sensory net from the epicenter between his parted legs.

Continuing to thrust his hot spike into Perceptor, Deadlock’s hands curled into fists on either side of Perceptor’s head and he grunted with his own overload, spilling cycled mech fluid over the sensitized walls of his valve. It hadn’t escaped his attention that Deadlock hardly ever moaned or made any real noise when he came. It was a curious idiosyncrasy. Perhaps borne of his time on the streets, but that was something he didn’t feel was appropriate to ask about, even if he found it curious.

Deadlock sank down overtop of Perceptor. As good as the intense overloads felt, Perceptor had come to relish the moments afterward just as much. Being this close to him, feeling his heat and weight, it made his spark flutter and feel funny in a wonderful way. Deadlock shifted, slipping himself free and moving to what was now his usual spot, lying front first in the space between Perceptor’s arm and his body. Red optics gazed at Perceptor with warmth and affection no longer masked by indifference.

“I can see you thinking,” Deadlock commented.

Perceptor smiled. “Oh?”

Deadlock half-smiled, his optics darkening. “You’re bad at lying.”

“Very true,” Perceptor replied.

Heaving a sigh from his intakes, Deadlock’s frame relaxed and his optics dimmed. “Tremor was wrong.”

“Wrong? About what?” Perceptor asked.

“Passing the time thing,” Deadlock replied, smile curving his lips.

Perceptor laughed. “I suppose so. Though, we could give that game a whirl. You might enjoy it.”

“Enjoy anything with you,” Deadlock murmured, optics flickering off. Moments later, his body softly vibrated as he slipped into a recharge.

“I suppose I tired you out, hm?” Perceptor said in a whisper. “And I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

Contentment pulsed in his spark. He wanted to find his comrades, to know they were safe, but he also wanted to relish every last moment he had here with Deadlock. What they shared was something that had been lacking in his life. Strange to think it took losing everything, even parts of his body, to end up here, lying curled up with a mech he’d fallen for and who seemed to feel the same way for him, to realize it.  

…

Frowning, Deadlock set his tile down. Playing this old game wasn’t really his thing, but Perceptor had been eager to show him and he couldn’t really say ‘no’ to him.

Perceptor glanced up. “In that location, you are at a disadvantage.” He pointed to the tile next to it. “Perhaps placing your piece here would be more ideal.”

Grunting, Deadlock stared at the game board and then moved his piece. Even though this wasn’t his idea of fun, he had to admit he was enjoying listening to Perceptor talk. That beautiful voice of his going on about the rules and strategies of the game was worth it.

The last two weeks alone together had been pretty nice. This was the closest Deadlock had ever felt to anyone, even closer than he’d been with Gasket. Gaze lifting to look at Perceptor, he knew what he felt for him ran deeper, too. Never in a billion years did he imagine he’d move past losing Gasket, let alone have his spark affected by another mech like this. Unable to help it, he frowned a little as he looked at the patch over Perceptor’s missing optic. A scar he was squarely responsible for.

Perceptor canted his head. “Something wrong?”

Deadlock dimmed his optics. “Nothing’s wrong. Just enjoying this.”

A small, subtle smile curved Perceptor’s lips. Primus help him, that smile always made his spark flutter.

Deadlock wasn’t one to pry into other’s pasts, especially since his own was so checkered, but the more time he spent with Perceptor the more he couldn’t understand how this mech hadn’t been involved with anyone before. He must have at least had friends. Deadlock wondered if they were all scientists, too. The encounter in the warehouse with that Autobot Perceptor knew suddenly came to mind. They’d seemed pretty friendly and that Autobot didn’t look like a scientist at all. “Can I ask you something?”

Nodding, Perceptor set down his next tile. “Of course.”

“That Autobot we ran into at the warehouses a while back, the one that was with Soundwave, he called you something other than ‘Perceptor’, what was it?”

“He called me ‘Percy’. Jazz is big on nicknames.” Perceptor half-smiled, sadness permeating his expression. “He’s a unique mech.”

Deadlock’s gaze shifted to the game board as he considered his next move. “You two were close?”

“Not really.” Perceptor rested his chin on his hand as he watched Deadlock slowly decide where to place his tile. “Never been close to anyone. Well, until now.”

Deadlock felt his spark practically dance in his chest in response. He didn’t know what to say as emotions he’d long since abandoned started to swirl around inside him, threatening to leak out and make him look like a soft-sparked idiot.

“I suppose your name doesn’t really lend itself to shortening, does it? If I were to guess, Jazz might call you ‘Lock’,” Perceptor said, expertly moving the subject in another direction. Thank Primus...

“Well, Deadlock isn’t my original name,” he replied, quickly shoving his emotions back down as he finally placed his tile on the board. “Megatron gave me that name when I joined up.”

Looking surprised, Perceptor canted his head a little. “May I ask what your given name is?”

“Drift,” Deadlock replied. It was a name he’d happily discarded along with all his painful memories of the past.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Perceptor replied. “Though, I can see how Deadlock might be more advantageous among the Decepticon ranks.”

 _Beautiful name_. Only Perceptor would think that... He half smiled.

As much as he was enjoying this time with Perceptor, that nagging feeling it could all be ripped away any second remained a constant looming presence in his mind. No matter how far they went, no matter how safe it might seem Deadlock knew Turmoil would find him. The safest place for Perceptor was nowhere near him. As much as he really didn’t want things to come to that, Deadlock knew in the end he cared too much about Perceptor to subject him to the misery that was his existence plagued by Turmoil.

A series of pings echoed from the cockpit.

Perceptor perked up, his one optic bright. “The signal sweep picked up something.” Getting to his feet, he left the main cabin for the cockpit area.

Deadlock followed and leaned in the doorway, watching as Perceptor pulled up a map and a window of scrolling data. It went by so fast, he had no idea how Perceptor was even able to read it, let alone understand what it all meant.

“I set up a specific sweep to check for a coded signal I embedded in the fuselage that would tell us if we were anywhere near the escaped Autobot ship.” Perceptor paused his scrolling, and pointed to a line with coordinates. “Here, it’s pinpointed the location of their ship.”

Surprised, Deadlock’s optics brightened. “We found it? Already?”

“It would appear so,” Perceptor replied, as his fingers flew over the control panel buttons. Maps flew up on screen and after a moment it zoomed in on a planet about 24 hours away. Perceptor then lay in the new navigation coordinates. “I find the location worrisome.” His fingers continued to dance over the controls. “We aren’t that far out from Cybertron, and it has been gone for quite some time.”

“Yeah,” Deadlock replied with a frown. He hoped that they would find the wayward ship intact and he could leave Perceptor with them, but being so close to Cybertron planet bound didn’t bode well. They might have crashed. They might all be dead.

Deadlock glanced from the screen to the side of Perceptor’s face. How in the name of Primus would he be able to protect Perceptor if he couldn’t get him to a safe place? He’d endured Turmoil’s wrath before, but this time was different. The consequences for what had happened were going to be severe if they were found. Deadlock would need to figure out a plan B, and soon...

…

Stiffening, Perceptor onlined to a hand over his mouth. Sitting up beside him, Deadlock looked down with slitted optics as he lifted a finger to his lips in a ‘shh’ gesture.

They were in the berth at the back of their small ship, having slipped offline to recharge after yet another rigorous round of interfacing. Perceptor stared up at Deadlock, his confusion written across his face.

Deadlock cupped his hand over his audio, and that’s when Perceptor turned up the gain on his own audios. The distinct sound of heavy footfall in the main cabin echoed from the open doorway. Someone else was on board? Who? Why?

Leaning down, Deadlock replaced his hand with his lips in a brief, loving kiss. Breaking the kiss, sadness swept over his face. “Turmoil,” he whispered. “Take the escape pod and go.”

Those words combined with the kiss and look on Deadlock’s face telegraphed his intentions. Sliding off the berth, Deadlock strode toward the door, walking like a mech that had nothing left to lose. Perceptor had watched his comrades walk into their final battle just like that. No! Perceptor refused to let Deadlock take the brunt of this. He refused to run away again, and got off the berth, silently following him.

Perceptor stood just behind Deadlock in the doorway to the main cabin, gaze landing on the hulking mech, Turmoil. Their unwanted guest sat at the table with the game board set up on it, flicking pieces off onto the floor.

Noticing them, Turmoil turned his attention in their direction. “There you are my little escaped pet,” he said, voice booming. “I see _your_ pet survived his punishment.”

Deadlock’s head swiveled around, surprised to see Perceptor. “Why did you follow me?” he hissed.

“We do this together,” Perceptor replied in a hushed voice.

“Doesn’t work like that,” Deadlock replied, his voice low.

“Enough whispering!” Turmoil stood up, unhooking a pair of stasis cuffs from his hip. “This time you went too far, Deadlock. Training your pet to attack, then attempting to flee from me.”

Deadlock held up his arms, submissively offering his wrists. “Punish me, but don’t harm him.”

Perceptor was shocked that he would so easily give into this tyrant, but after his own encounter with Turmoil and all he’d learned in his time with Deadlock, it was clear that this type of abuse was now normal to him.

“Oh, I will be punishing you,” Turmoil replied as he stepped forward, shoving Deadlock aside with enough force to knock him to the floor. His dark red-visored gaze then focused on Perceptor as he lunged forward.

Instinctually, Perceptor tried get away from Turmoil, attempting to duck him. Missing an optic made dodging the grasping hand impossible, though. His arm was caught in a tight hold as Turmoil snapped one half of the stasis cuffs on his wrist. He then dragged Perceptor over to the floor-mounted chair beside the table.

“Sit!” Turmoil shoved Perceptor down and then clasped the other end of the cuffs around the arm of the seat. Placing a hand on each arm of the chair, Turmoil leaned in close. “Watch as I break your owner.”

“Get away from him!” Deadlock jumped up on Turmoil’s back, arms wrapped around his neck.

Perceptor was helpless, unable to do anything as he watched Turmoil straighten to stand and roar angrily, slamming into the wall of the ship, crushing Deadlock on his back. From the force of it, Deadlock let go. Turmoil whirled around, hand wrapping around Deadlock’s neck and squeezing it as he lifted him off his feet.

“You think you can fight me? Has our time apart made you delusional?” Turmoil asked. “I’m bigger, stronger and most of all not a dirty little syphonist like you. You’re a nobody! A guttermech! You can pretend all you like that you’re no longer that spike sucking, homeless mech, but I know better. There is no amount of cleanser in the universe to wash the stink of that off you.”

Perceptor was horrified. Not by what Turmoil said, but how he treated Deadlock. He wrenched on the cuffs, but it was useless. He was locked in place, and no good for fighting with only one optic. He lacked the ability to quickly and accurately react. Nevermind the fact that Turmoil was too large and strong for either of them to take down.

Deadlock’s black fingers made a futile attempt to pry at Turmoil’s hand around his neck. “How did you find us?” he asked, voice filled with static.

“Your little friend, Tremorwave, should be more careful who he buys star ships from. Lockdown and I go way back. That aft will give up any information he’s got for the right price, including a ship signal.” Turmoil darkly laughed. “It took no time to catch up to this small ship in my cruiser.” He pulled Deadlock close, his visor dimming. “Then I was a simple space bridge jump away.”

Throwing Deadlock to the ground, Turmoil dropped down to straddle and pin him before punching him in the face.

“Stop it!” Perceptor shouted. His spark twisted in his chest. “Stop it now!”

“Get the frag off of me!” Deadlock kicked at Turmoil, flailed and punched back, landing blow after blow across his attacker’s chin.

Turmoil began to laugh, taking Deadlock’s punches without any real effect. “Pathetic. You’re pathetic, Deadlock.” He then backhanded Deadlock so hard Perceptor could hear the crack of optic glass and squeak of his face plates being misaligned.

Deadlock’s body then went limp. Turmoil had hit him so hard, he’d knocked him offline.

“No!” Perceptor pulled with all his weight on the cuffs. He couldn’t sit by and let Turmoil do this. Either the cuffs would break or his hand would dislocate. Either way, he wasn’t going to let this go on without at least trying to stop it.

He then saw Turmoil force open Deadlock’s interface cover. Perceptor watched, completely horrified, as Turmoil then undid his own cover and immediately began to violate Deadlock while he wasn’t even online. What in the name of Primus was wrong with this mech? He was sick and twisted. The shock of it quickly morphed into an anger Perceptor had never felt before. It was potent and fiery, burning inside him with an explosive power that fueled a surge of energy and new resolve. Standing up, he pulled on the cuffs and leaned back, fully expecting his hand to rip out of the socket. He’d already lost pieces of himself, what was one more piece if he could at the very least get that horrible beast off Deadlock?

Groaning, Deadlock sounded like he was onlining again.

Perceptor pulled even harder, hearing the metal of the chair arm creaking.

“There is no escaping me, Deadlock. You’re _mine_ ,” Turmoil said. “No one else would want you if they knew who you were before.” Turmoil grunted with his efforts as he continued to force himself into Deadlock. “Knew how many spikes you used to swallow fluid from... You’re utterly worthless, other than being my pet.”

“I hate you,” Deadlock murmured, his voice staticy and hissing.

“Hate me all you want, doesn’t change a thing. You belong to _me_ ,” Turmoil replied, venom lacing his deep voice.

With every last ounce of strength, Perceptor yanked on the cuffs and to his surprise he flew backward onto his aft. Momentarily dazed, he saw that the arm of the chair was still cuffed to him, but no longer attached to the chair itself. He then quickly regained his senses at hearing Turmoil’s grunts turn into little moans of enjoyment and looked back over at them. He was so busy violating Deadlock; he’d not noticed Perceptor freeing himself.

Getting to his feet, Perceptor frowned at the piece of chair attached to him. He couldn’t fight very well hand to hand as it was, let alone with this thing hanging off his wrist.

Turmoil thrust faster and harder into Deadlock, moaning loudly now, and Perceptor thought he might purge his tank as he watched from behind them. Deadlock was groaning and murmuring disjointed words like ‘frag’, ‘die’, ‘Pit’. The blow to his head must have been extremely severe to render him unable to make coherent sentences.

Perceptor deeply frowned, shaking with his rising rage. How dare Turmoil treat Deadlock like this? What gave him the right to call Deadlock a pet? He was all the ill of their kind wrapped up in one giant, evil mech. It sickened and angered Perceptor that this sort of mech was allowed to roam free, when he’d been made a slave. He had to find a way to stop him. Turmoil must have a weakness...

Perceptor’s one optic then focused on the back of Turmoil’s helm, specifically at the base. All Cybertronians could be knocked offline if their processor was jarred hard enough. If Perceptor could hit him at that less protected part at the base, he might be able to temporarily shut him down.

Quickly calculating for his missing optic, he lifted the arm of the chair cuffed to his wrist up over his head and moved in, swinging it down with his full force and fury at the base of Turmoil’s neck. The odds he’d actually land the blow had been fifty/fifty. Perhaps through determination or possibly his desperation to make it all stop; he hit the perfect spot.

Turmoil half-turned his head before his visor went black and he collapsed over Deadlock.

Slag! Perceptor didn’t mean to crush Deadlock under Turmoil’s mass. Perceptor grunted as he pushed Turmoil, rolling him off Deadlock. Beneath, Deadlock lie a mangled disaster. There was no time to stand and assess the extent of his injuries, though. Scooping Deadlock’s limp body up into his arms, Perceptor moved around Turmoil’s offlined frame and made his way to the back of the ship.

In the berth room was a trap door. He elbowed the control panel in the wall, and the door in the floor slid open. He frowned, seeing it was a ladder that led down the escape pod below. Shifting Deadlock, he moved him so he was over his shoulder and then made the precarious descent down the ladder into the tiny cockpit, trying to not let his cuffed chair piece get caught in the rungs.

The escape pod was meant for one mech, just like the ship was really meant for a single occupant to run. It took careful maneuvering, but Perceptor sat himself in the seat with Deadlock’s offlined body essentially sitting in his lap. Reaching around Deadlock as best he could, his fingers flew over the control panel, initializing the turn on sequence. The ladder retracted and the pod’s glassy cover closed them inside.

The engine roared to life, and a 10 second countdown for ejection from the ship started.

“Get back here, you fraggers!” Turmoil shouted.

Glancing up, Perceptor saw Turmoil staring down from the open trap door above them. He frowned at him, knowing that using an escape pod didn’t guarantee their safety in the least; it only delayed the inevitable.

The pod suddenly dropped from the ship, then shot forward. In the distance was the planet they’d been heading toward with the fallen Autobot ship. Perceptor quickly input commands to land them there.

Deadlock’s systems were straining, making sounds they shouldn’t and vibrating in a way that caused Perceptor great concern. He stared down at his mangled frame, spark aching in his chest at seeing how damaged Deadlock was. Noticing his interface hardware exposed, he reached down to snap the cover back in place. It was dented and bent, though, refusing to snap back.

“Oh, Deadlock,” he whispered. He hugged him gently in his grasp, pressing a kiss to the side of his dented helm. This wasn’t going to end well, but at least Perceptor had tried to fight back. Stopped the attack, even if it had been momentary.

The control panel lit up with a trajectory map as the planet loomed close. Perceptor watched out the glassy dome as the escape pod entered the planet’s atmosphere. The engine hissed and the cabin heated from the heat caused by the atmospheric layers they passed through until they finally entered the air over the desolate landscape. Perceptor braced himself, and held Deadlock closer, knowing this was going to be a hard landing. The ground came up fast, whirring past the small escape pod, as the engine cut out. Perceptor winced, holding Deadlock tighter in his arms as they bounced first, then eventually started to skid across the desert landscape, kicking up dirt and rocks that pelted the sides of the pod.

Once the pod came to a stop, Perceptor pushed the release, and the dome depressurized, opening. That cursed arm rest from the chair was still cuffed to him, though, which threw off his balance as he clumsily got out of the escape pod, nearly toppling over and dropping Deadlock.

Stumbling away from the pod, he laid Deadlock down on the sun-parched ground. After making a cursory examination, he saw there wasn’t much he could do. The damages were extensive and no amount of patching from an emergency repair kit could fix this. His gaze lifted to Deadlock’s face, focusing on the misaligned cheek plate and some spatters of energon now drying at the corner of his mouth. Both optics were shattered and cracked. Leaning down, Perceptor pressed a kiss to Deadlock’s face, just below the right optic. He gently brushed the backs of his fingers down his marred cheek plate with reverence. He’d fallen so desperately in love with him. To have that small corner of happiness they’d managed to find ripped away like this was spark wrenching.

A sound, similar but different from a Seeker engine echoed in the distance. Perceptor sat back on his heels, optic scanning the sky. He expected to see the dark color of Turmoil, though he realized he had no idea what that giant mech’s alternate mode might be. Instead, his gaze was drawn to a flash of white.

Canting his head, he wasn’t sure what to make of the jet as it drew closer. Was it an enemy? It looked odd... Like old Cybertronian technology. Getting to his feet, Perceptor took hold of his cuffed chair arm, holding it in front of him. He’d fight if he needed to, despite knowing how handicapped he was, missing an optic.

Approaching, the jet transformed and landed lightly on his feet. Perceptor’s gaze wandered over this mech’s frame, intensely curious about his origin. He looked like he’d stepped out of a historical video about Cybertron. His plating was layered in an old-style design, and had been waxed to a high gloss shine that reflected distorted images of the landscape around them. He was beautiful.

Unusual, bright golden-colored optics seem to slowly take in the scene. “Looks like you and your friend there are in need of assistance,” the white armored mech commented.

Still unsure what to make of this mech, Perceptor frowned, lifting his pseudo weapon up. “Who are you? What is your faction?”

“I’m Wing.” Stepping a little closer, Wing’s gaze moved to Deadlock just behind Perceptor. “I have no faction.” He then looked back at Perceptor, golden optics visually wandering his frame. “And neither do you.”

For a moment Perceptor was confused, then remembered his chest plate had been replaced, which had been where his Autobot symbol was stamped. “Autobot. I’m an Autobot.”

Wing’s optics brightened at his admission. “I don’t intend to harm you or your friend.” Wing held his hands up, palms facing Perceptor. “I would like to help you both, if you will let me.”

Lowering the chair arm, Perceptor shook his head. “We are being pursued by a merciless enemy. Our misfortune will only harm you.”

“I doubt that,” Wing replied as he extended his arm. “I offer protection, and some of the most brilliant medics the Crystal City has ever produced.”

Crystal City? Did he really just say–?

“Please. I can tell from here that your friend’s window for survival is closing. Let me help,” Wing said as he took a tentative step closer.

Dropping the cuffed piece of chair, Perceptor nodded, accepting the offer of help. He knew this mech was right, that Deadlock would die if he weren’t tended to right away. Whether this was the wisest choice or not for their long-term safety he’d have to assess that later. Right now Deadlock needed help.

“Help him,” Perceptor said, resolve in his voice. “I’ll do anything. Please, save his life. Help him...”

Wing nodded. “I promise I will.”


	10. Parted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to circumstances beyond their control, Deadlock and Perceptor are separated and kept apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I am going to finish this fic! But it looks like I need another chapter... Sorry for the looooong wait between updates. *don't be mad* .__.;;; 
> 
> No beta this time. I am just tossing this up since you all have waited so long anyway.

Sitting in an examination chair, Perceptor waited. He’d been in this room for some time now, left alone with nothing more than his exhaustion and tired thoughts.

Upon arrival at this strange underground city, he and Deadlock had been brought to the medical facility. He intended stay with Deadlock during the repairs, but they’d not allowed him, escorting him to this exam room instead. Wing tried to assure Perceptor that Deadlock would be very well cared for, but it didn’t lessen the anxiety he felt. His whole world had shrunk down around Deadlock. He was all that mattered to Perceptor and he honestly couldn’t see his life without him now. Being parted from him filled him with anxiety and unease.

The door to the room whooshed open and a mech clad in ancient-styled, greyish-blue plating entered.

“Hello there,” the mech said as he made his way over to Perceptor. “I’m Exelon. I’d like to take a look at your injuries and run a general assessment, if you’ll allow me.”

Perceptor nodded.

The medic pushed over a rolling stool, and sat himself down. He turned on the monitors attached to the exam chair Perceptor was sitting in, and pulled a thin wire with a jack out from the base of one of the monitors. Perceptor started to sit forward to allow access to the port at the base of his neck.

The medic looked confused. “I just need your hand,” he said as he took hold of Perceptor’s forearm and flipped it over to expose the underside of his wrist. Pressing his fingertip to the base, a small port Perceptor had never known was there opened. The medic slid the jack into it, and the monitor lit up with Perceptor’s tech specs. He stared with his one optic, shocked to see that his complete creation specs were stored within his body. He had no idea...

“Looks like you are missing more than an optic,” Exelon said. He zoomed in on the area where Perceptor’s shoulder mounted scope had once been. “I’ll put in a fabrication request.” His fingers flew over the screen, isolating the specs for his microscope mount. Once he’d finished, he turned back to Perceptor, moving in to look at the patch over his missing optic. “Now let’s have a closer look at the damages to your optic.”

Perceptor tensed, suddenly preferring Tremorwave’s style of knocking him out. Maybe it was all his time living with only Deadlock for a companion, or maybe it was just his general distrust of a mech he didn’t know, but his already anxiety-ridden mental state slid into full on panic as the medic touched his face.

He reached up and swatted at the medic’s hand. “Get away from me!”

Looking surprised at the reaction, the medic shook his head. “I can’t repair you unless I take a look.”

Shifting in the exam chair away from the medic, Perceptor shook his head. “Don’t touch me,” he said with a low growl to his voice.

The door to the room opened and Wing walked in. “Exelon, would you give me a moment alone with our guest?”

Sighing, Exelon nodded. “Convince him to allow me to properly look at his injury, will you?” He got to his feet and exited in an annoyed huff.

Wing walked over and canted his head at Perceptor. “Hello, again.”

Hands balled into fists, Perceptor was shaking a little, untrusting and now feeling exposed and alone.

In a graceful motion, Wing sat down on the stool, and laced his fingers in his lap. “I wanted to let you know that your companion has been stabilized and he should pull through. Due to the extensive damages, we will need to remake much of his plating.” Wing glanced at the screen with Perceptor’s specs. “Unlike you, his spec information port was corrupted and they were unable to pull up his files.” Looking back at Perceptor, Wing offered a small, warm smile. “I assure you, he will be fully repaired, though. We have some of the best medics here.”

Talking about Deadlock helped ease his anxiety a little, and Perceptor nodded to Wing, hands relaxing at his sides.

“I have another piece of news for you as well. I sent your image to my good friend Axe. You see, we are not supposed to visit the surface of this planet, but being a flier, well, it’s impossible to stay underground all the time.” Wing tilted his head. “Axe and I were flying some time ago and found a crashed ship. We rescued seven Autobots from the wreckage, and they are currently staying with him.”

“They’re alive?” Perceptor asked, staring intently at Wing with his one optic.

“Very much so. When they saw your image, they recognized you, _Perceptor._ ” Wing smiled at him. “I’d like to reunite you with your comrades, but until you’ve been cleared by the medical staff here, I won’t be allowed to take you to them.”

Perceptor frowned at Wing. He was a relieved they were alive and curious about the relic they’d had on board and if it had also survived the crash, but he still didn’t want some strange medic touching him.

Wing dimmed his golden optics as he gazed at Perceptor, looking concerned. “I would like to see you fully repaired but I don’t want to cause you any further stress. So please tell me what I can do to help?”

Shaking his head, Perceptor wasn’t sure how to answer that. In truth, he wanted control over his life back. He looked up at his specs on screen, and frowned. That mech on screen was designed for a peacetime world, to research and expand the pool of knowledge about their species and how they fit into the universe. That mech was also lonely and solitary, miserable outside his lab and detached from his emotions. He was not that mech anymore.

“I would like to modify my design,” Perceptor finally said. He let his singular-opticked gaze shift back to Wing. “Choose how I am repaired and make improvements at my own discretion.”

Wing nodded. “That can be arranged.”

“And I don’t want to be alone with that medic,” Perceptor added.

A touch of surprise flashed over Wing’s face. “He’s one of our very best--”

“Best or not, I’m tired of having my control stripped of me. I don’t know or trust him not to victimize me as well,” Perceptor replied in a hard edged voice he rarely used.

“Would my presence be enough to be of comfort? Or should I have one of your Autobot comrades brought here?” Wing offered, sounding earnest.

Perceptor deeply frowned at the idea of his comrades seeing him like this. He wanted Deadlock here, but he knew that was out of the question. With no basis in logic at all, Wing felt safe to him. He barely knew him, but still, Perceptor didn’t feel as panicky now. Wing seemed to have an aura of calm about him. “I’d like it if you stayed.”

Wing nodded, and his golden optics seemed to shimmer as he smiled. “I will stay.”

“Thank you,” Perceptor replied.

“You are more than welcome. Now--” Wing clapped his hands together. “--let’s get you back in tip top condition.”

…

 

Fully repaired, and satisfied with the alterations he’d made to his specs, Perceptor had been discharged. A specialized optic replaced his damaged one, restoring his sight. He’d had his chestplate remade with a much stronger alloy to protect him from blasts. In fact, he’d had much of his plating replaced with a higher density metal. Having Wing in the room with him while the medics worked on his repairs and upgrades helped ease his anxiety, and he was extremely grateful for his continued presence.

Unfortunately, though, his requests to see Deadlock before he was taken to see his comrades were denied. It felt strange attempting to cope without his constant companion, but with each passing day his life with Deadlock had started to feel like it might have all been a dream. At night he’d often replay memory files of their time together to remind him it had all happened. That he’d fallen in love.

“I apologize I wasn’t able to get approval for your to see your friend,” Wing said as he walked Perceptor out of the medical facility. “I did plead your case to Dai Atlas, but he’s worried your war will spread to our peaceful society.”

Perceptor frowned a little, but held back sharing his opinion on such a ridiculous worry.

Wing clasped his hands behind his back as they walked. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“You may,” Perceptor replied.

Wing looked at Perceptor, seriousness written across his face. “Your friend had a different mark on his plating than the friends I am taking you to see now, and when I showed them an image of him, they said he was from an opposing faction in your war. How is it you and he became friends across the dividing lines of war?”

“You showed them his picture?” Perceptor asked as he furrowed his brow. That made him uncomfortable. He was having a hard enough time coming to terms with the feelings he held for his former master, and hardly expected they would ever understand it.

“I showed them both of your images to see if they could identify either of you,” Wing replied. “They said he is an enemy, but I saw no ill will on your part out in the desert, which is why I asked.”

Perceptor looked at the ground as they walked. His freshly repaired optic was still adjusting to the scope glass he’d had installed. “You’re correct, there is no ill will between us.” He then rolled his shoulder with his restored microscope mount, finding comfort in the feeling of it’s weight.

“What about your friendship?” Wing asked, not letting Perceptor gloss over his initial question.

How in the world did he explain his journey from being Deadlock’s slave to a free mech now in love with his former owner? Saying such a thing out loud would throw his mental stability into question. “Over time a close friendship developed.”

“I get the impression you aren’t telling me everything, but when you are ready, I hope you’ll be willing to share the story with me,” Wing replied. “I’m intensely curious.”

Wing was strange to Perceptor, prying yet courteous. Pushing but never forcing. Still, he felt oddly comfortable with him, unlike the rest of this place that he found rather disconcerting. After all, they were a closed society of former cult members who held no sympathy for those they’d left behind to suffer in the war. It made it hard not to feel like they were traitors.

“Here we are, my friend Axe’s home. He has a large place and all your comrades have been staying here with him.” Wing gestured to the short walkway that led to an ornately decorated door.

They proceeded down the path and Wing leaned over pressing a bell to alert their arrival.

The door opened to reveal a stocky, dark colored mech who smiled brightly at them. “This must be Perceptor. Hello there!”

“Hello,” Perceptor replied. A ripple of anxiety pushed through him. He wanted to see his comrades, but he couldn’t deny he was nervous about being reunited with them.

“They are all downstairs in the living area. Follow me,” Axe said as he stepped back to allow Wing and Perceptor inside.

 

They followed him down a set of stairs, and as they swept into the room they were greeted by all seven of the surviving crew. Perceptor stood frozen as he looked at them. It felt unreal.

“Percy!” Ratchet was the first to come forward, pulling Perceptor into a hug. The others moved in closer too.

His gaze darted from face to face; Ratchet, Wheeljack, Blaster, Hot Rod, Tracks, Roadbuster, and Blurr. They all looked to be in great health, and incredibly happy to see him. Overwhelmed by the surreal aspects of seeing Autobots not in collars, he just stood there letting them take turns giving friendly arm pats or hugs.

Ratchet wrapped an arm around Perceptor’s back. “How in the name of Primus did you get off Cybertron?”

“We took the last working shuttle,” Wheeljack added, canting his head curiously.

“Did it have something to do with the ‘Con they found you with?” Hot Rod asked.

“Yes,” Perceptor replied.

“Heh, wanna elaborate?” Wheeljack asked.

“Before you overwhelm him with all these questions, may I speak with him for a moment?” Wing asked as he stepped into the fray. He reached out and put a hand on Perceptor’s shoulder, giving in a friendly squeeze. “Axe is happy to have you here with your comrades. When I have word on your friend, I will come and see you, alright?”

“I’m staying here?” Perceptor asked.

“This is your place to call home, too,” Wing replied.

Perceptor nodded. “I see."

“We’ll leave you all to your reunion,” Axe said as he gestured to Wing to go before him up the stairs.

Something felt off. Perceptor watched them disappear, unsure where this new feeling of unease was coming from.

“Tell us what happened, Percy. From the beginning.” Ratchet gently pulled Perceptor toward the set of circular couches. “How the final battle went, what happened after, _everything_."

His comrades all took seats around him.

Perceptor sat down, gaze wandering over their faces. “May I ask a few questions, first? Where is the relic... the _real_ matrix? Why did you not return to Cybertron with it once you determined how to open it?”

“Thing wouldn’t open,” Blaster said. “Then we crashed on this planet. The mechs here saved our lives, but took the matrix from us. Put it in some locked warehouse, claiming it was historical and needed to be preserved.”

“And we’re locked away _here_ ,” Hot Rod added, arms crossed over his chest. “We can’t leave unless _escorted_. It’s a bunch of slag.”

“They’re just protecting their city, and we aren’t really part of their citizenry,” Tracks said, shrugging his shoulder.

“No excuse if you ask me,” Hot Rod replied. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Why should we be prisoners here?”

A sinking feeling then hit Perceptor. Locked away? Prisoners? Had he nearly died and managed to finally regain his freedom only to have it taken away again?

“Percy...” Ratchet touched Perceptor’s arm. “Please, tell us what happened.”

Looking at Ratchet, Perceptor frowned. He then lowered his gaze to his lap, rolling his shoulder with his new microscope mount. He sucked air through his intakes and then let it escape slowly before he began to recount the events for them.

“We fought hard, but Optimus died at Megatron’s hands...”

…

 

Waking with a start, Deadlock sat up, optics fighting to focus on the two mechs who stood over him.

“Where’s Perceptor?” he said, grimacing at the wave of dizziness that hit him. Wait, who were these mechs? Where in the name of Pit was he? Last thing he remembered were choppy images of Turmoil’s ugly face as he violated him right in front of Perceptor-- “Where the frag am I?”

“Calm down, friend. You’re safe and your friend, Perceptor, is doing quite well.” The mech on the right then placed a hand on Deadlock’s shoulder. “I’m Wing. May I ask your name?”

He opened his mouth to say ‘Deadlock’, but then all the torment and pain that name evoked made him pause. “Drift,” he replied. “And you said Perceptor is okay? Did you fix him?” He squinted his optics, trying to figure out why everything looked so slagging weird, like extra crystal clear and bright.

“His older injuries along with his newer ones were all tended to in the time you’ve been offline,” Wing replied.

“How long have I been out?” Deadlock asked.

“Nearly three weeks,” Wing replied.

Deeply frowning, he started to scoot toward the edge of the berth, wanting to be on his feet. “Take me to see Perceptor.”

“Dai Atlas won’t allow that,” the other mech said.

Wing offered his hand to help Deadlock stand. “Due to your opposing faction symbol, Dai Atlas feels that it’s best you are kept separate from the others for right now.”

“Others?” Squinting in a vain attempt to make the world less bright and overwhelming, Deadlock scowled. “I don’t give a frag who this Dai Atlas is. I want to see Perceptor. What ‘others’ is he with?”

“Other mechs who identified him as a friend,” Wing replied. “Are your optics not working? You have them dimmed and squinted down.”

“It’s bright in here.” Deadlock replied.

A look of realization washed over the other’s mech’s face. “His red optics cut out certain wavelengths of light. These new ones are allowing in the full spectrum.”

“Full what?” Deadlock ripped his arm out of Wing’s tentative hold, stomping over to a shiny piece of medical equipment and looking at his reflection. Mouth slightly gaped, he stared at the mech in the reflection. “My optics are blue…”

“We don’t fabricate red glass for optics here. In time you should adjust to the new ones, though,” the other mech said.

Stepping back, he looked at the distorted reflection of his frame in the metallic surface. All the black plating and modifications were stripped off his frame. He was pristine white, with small accents of grey. He rubbed at his new chestplate, unsure how he felt about being given an entirely new look. What if Perceptor didn’t like it? Then a more ominous thought struck him, what if they never allowed him to see Perceptor again? No… He had to see him. If for no other reason than to tell him he loved him. For once in his pathetic life, he wanted to be completely honest with the mech that had managed to stir his spark.

Fingers lightly touched his arm. “I realize this is all a lot to process, Drift.”

 _Drift._ He was no longer that naive mech, but he wanted a part of his former self back. The part that had hope in the gutters for something more. The part that Gasket had fallen in love with. The part he was sure had died back then, but Perceptor brought back to life. “You changed how I look.”

“Your core specs were corrupted. The medics did their best to restore you,” Wing replied.

There was a long stretch of silence as he tried to reconcile the mech staring back at him with all he’d been through. He felt reborn, like he’d been given another chance to make things right.

“Drift?” Wing prompted.

Looking at him, Deadlock frowned. “So what happens to me now?”

Wing warmly smiled. “For the time being, you’re my responsibility.”

Scowling at him, he shook his head. “Your prisoner, you mean.”

“Not at all. We just require your presence to be monitored while here,” Wing replied, looking almost wounded by Deadlock’s accusation.

He grunted at Wing then looked back at his distorted reflection, wondering if this time he'd be strong enough not to give into the darkness that had claimed him before.

…

 

The nights were the worst part. Pressed against the wall, Perceptor offlined his optics and tried to trick his processor into accepting the sensation of the wall in place of Deadlock. It only worked sometimes.

Axe’s home was quite large, and in the lower levels there were a series of berthrooms. So many in fact, that each of his comrades and himself had their own private spaces. They weren’t huge rooms, but the fact he had a space to isolate himself in had been helpful. Seeing them all again was a huge relief, but living in such close proximity under lock was another matter. Even that fact felt minor in comparison to the hole he felt in his spark without Deadlock.

He missed him so much his spark would ache. Their life together felt more and more like a dream he wished he could somehow get back to.

When his comrades asked about the aftermath, he’d been honest about being auctioned off and how all Autobots were now slaves. The details of his own time with Deadlock he’d left purposely vague. They’d been horrified enough when it came to the details of how their fellow Autobots had been treated.

With a resigned sigh, Perceptor lit his optics and stared at the wall. This wasn’t working tonight.

On the nights he wasn’t able to recharge he went out on the balcony attached to the living area. Silently padding his way over to the glass door, he palmed the release. Once it slid back, he stepped out onto the landing, letting the light winds bathe his plating. It wasn’t freedom, but it still felt good. He leaned on the railing, looking down at the sprawling New Crystal City. All he could think when he stared out over the landscape was that somewhere in that beautiful series of buildings and roads was Deadlock.

“Can’t recharge, again?”

Perceptor glanced over his shoulder at Ratchet. The former medic stood in the open doorway, concern written across his face.

“I know you went through a lot.” Ratchet stepped out onto the balcony, moving to stand beside Perceptor and turning his gaze out over the scene before them. “Been through more than you’ve told us is my guess.” Ratchet glanced at Perceptor. “If you want to talk, I’m here, Percy.”

Staring at Ratchet, Perceptor was reminded of his long ago crush. He realized now his attraction had been about the fact that Ratchet was a caregiver. His actual personality and faults surrounding his coping mechanisms aside, what drew Perceptor to him was the fact that he took an interest and cared. In hindsight, he knew it was a flawed attraction based in his own desperate loneliness.

“There is nothing to say,” Perceptor replied.

“Come on. I know there is a lot more. You didn’t really explain about the Decepticon they found you with. I mean, I know he bought you and everything, but why did he take you off planet?” Ratchet asked.

Perceptor considered not giving a real answer. To keep his relationship secret. Still, he knew Ratchet wouldn’t let it go unless he gave a more honest answer. “To set me free.”

“Why would a ‘Con do that?” Ratchet asked with a vague frown.

Exhaustion mixed with his aching spark and lowered his usual defenses. Turning partway to face Ratchet, he took a more direct tack. “Because we fell in love with one another.”

Ratchet stared at him for a long moment, looking extremely concerned. “You do realize emotional attachments in those situations are survival mechanisms, right?”

Of course Ratchet would say that. Perceptor softly sighed air from his intakes. “Yes. I might even agree with you, except for the fact that my feelings for him have not faded in the least since I arrived here. If anything, I miss him more with each passing day,” Perceptor replied as he steeled himself for a rebuttal.

After gazing at him for a long, tense moment, Ratchet sadly smiled. “Full on spark ache, huh?”

Surprised by the question, Perceptor simply nodded.

“So you’re in love,” Ratchet replied. “I’m glad you found someone, but I’m not gonna say I approve of that someone being a 'Con. You deserve better."

"Like you?" Perceptor asked with a pointed look.

Ratchet snorted a laugh. "Nah, I'm not good enough for you, either."

Fingering the railing with one hand, Perceptor frowned. “And Wheeljack? He was good enough for you.” Past hurts rippled to the surface with his question.

"I'm lucky he can see past my never ending list of problems." Huffing air from his intakes, Ratchet sighed. "You're a good mech. You have a good spark. And some two-bit Decepticon that paid to own you hardly seems like he'd be good enough for you."

"He's not what he seems. He bought me to spare me from being tortured by the other bidder. He protected me. Looked out for me." Perceptor curled his fingers over the railing as he looked out over the city again. "He gave me everything that had been missing from my life."

"Then explain why in that picture Wing showed us, your optic was missing. Why you were dented and unkempt? How is that caring for you? Looked like abuse to me," Ratchet replied, a touch of anger in his voice.

"I assume you saw his image as well." Perceptor gave Ratchet a sidelong glance. "The mech that rearranged his face shot me twice a few weeks prior. One shot went through my optic, the other through my chest plate." Perceptor dimmed his mismatched optics. "I almost died."

"An ex?" Ratchet asked.

Perceptor frowned a little, unsure how to explain what Turmoil was. "In a way. He believes he owns Deadlock."

"Deadlock," Ratchet repeated the name, letting it roll over his glossa as he seemed to ponder it. "That’s the ‘Con’s name, hm?”

Perceptor nodded.

“He did look like he’d been pulverized down to his substructure in that picture we saw.” Ratchet regarded Perceptor for a moment. “He took that beating to protect you?”

Not really wanting to talk about what he’d witnessed on the ship, the violence and brutalization of the mech he held so close to his spark, Perceptor only gave a sharp nod in reply.

Ratchet reached over, wrapping an arm around Perceptor’s shoulders and giving him a gentle but firm squeeze. “Maybe you should talk to that Wing mech. See if he can take you to see him.”

It seemed like a useless request to make, seeing as he’d been denied when they first discharged him, but it was worth trying.

“Maybe I will,” Perceptor replied.

…

 

“This is a load of slag! You can’t keep me locked up in your house like this!” Deadlock shouted.

He’d been here for three days, trapped in this house, unable to leave. He had a new level of appreciation for what Perceptor went through with him. He wanted to see him, apologize, kiss him, enjoy his embrace even if it was just one last time… “Please. I _need_ to see Perceptor.”

“As I already stated, Dai Atlas will not allow it,” Wing replied in an even voice.

Deadlock tromped over to a display cabinet filled with harvested crystals. Opening the door, he grabbed the one at his optic level and spun around, intending to smash into the floor. Before he could, Wing pinned him and his arm to the nearby wall, removing it from his grasp.

“I’ll destroy your entire home!” Deadlock threatened.

Finally a touch of annoyance crossed Wing’s face. So far he’d been impassive and annoyingly cheerful. It felt good to get a rise out of him.

“If you have a pent up need that requires an outlet, I suggest self-pleasuring,” Wing replied, as he placed the crystal back in the cabinet.

“Did you just tell me go frag myself?” Deadlock asked, shocked and impressed with himself that he’d made Wing mad enough to say that.

Wing leveled a serious look at him. “I have been trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you are making it extremely difficult.”

Confused, Deadlock raised an optic ridge. “Benefit of what doubt? What are you talking about?”

“In the desert I saw how much Perceptor seemed to care about you. He kept asking to see you while being repaired at the medical facility. I assumed you were close to one another, despite your differing factions. But later I learned you paid credits to _own_ him. He was your _slave_. So tell me, are you worthy of the devotion I saw in him? Or had he simply been traumatized by all he’d experienced?” Wing’s golden optics held Deadlock’s gaze, searching his face for the truth.

He suddenly felt like all the mech fluid had been bled out of his lines. “Been waiting to ask me that, huh?” Deadlock replied.

“For three days,” Wing replied.

“Who wouldn’t be traumatized by what happened?” Deadlock grimaced. “Look. I did my best. I thought those auctions were the lowest our species could sink. When I saw that other mech bidding on him, I knew he would have killed him for fun, after torturing him for Primus’ knows how long. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Wing’s gaze softened a touch. “You protected him?”

“I tried.” Deadlock shifted his gaze to the floor. “I failed.”

Neither said a word for a long moment. He really wasn’t ‘worthy’ of Perceptor and he knew it. Even Wing knew it. He wanted him back for his own selfish desires and frowned as he realized he didn’t deserve Perceptor’s devotion or affection.

Wing touched his shoulder, and he flinched before stepping out of reach.

“Drift…”

“You’re right. I don’t deserve his love.” With that, he turned and walked back toward his room, every bit of fight in him now gone.

He was all those things Turmoil said and worse. A guttermech hardly worth his weight in plating. Perceptor was with the mechs he’d intended to leave him with when they'd escaped. Maybe it was time to finally let go. He’d had a small glimpse of something amazing, and maybe that was all he was really worthy of in the end.


	11. In this Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes  
> I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind
> 
> The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out  
> You left me in the dark  
> No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight  
> In the shadow of your heart,”
> 
> -Florence + The Machine, ‘Cosmic Love’

Lying on his berth, Deadlock stared upward. Even the ceiling was decorated with a pattern. Everything here was so ornate. A side of Cybertronian society he’d never known before. He despised these mechs and their cowardice, and he found their overindulgences and the unnecessary extravagance sickening.

A light rap on the door caught his attention and he vented a thick sigh of air. “What?”

The door slid open, and Wing’s piercing, golden-opticked gaze focused on him, but he didn’t say anything.

“You already reminded me that I’m a piece of worthless slag. What more do you want?” Deadlock asked, scowling.

“Come. There is someplace I’d like to take you.” Wing gestured for Deadlock to get up.

“Do I have a choice?” Deadlock asked. Before Wing could reply, he answered his own question. “Whatever. Not like it matters anyway.” He got to his feet.

Wing looked troubled, but nodded and turned, walking down the hallway with that natural grace he possessed.

“You aren’t curious where I’m taking you?” Wing asked.

“No. I know you won’t let me see Perceptor, so honestly I couldn’t care less where you’re dragging me off to--” Deadlock came to stop as Wing opened the front door to his home and stepped outside. He hadn’t been outside since arriving here, and gave Wing a dubious look.

“It’s a little bit of a walk from here,” Wing said, smiling.

“Aren’t you worried I’ll run away?” Deadlock asked, cautiously approaching the doorway.

“No.” Wing looked supremely confident. “You wouldn’t get far.”

Deadlock frowned at him, then stepped over the threshold. "I bet I could, but there's no point. Nowhere to go."

Wing regarded him for a long moment then sadly smiled. "Come."

They walked side by side out of his small yard and onto the street. Silence fell between them, and Deadlock was once again consumed with the ache he had for Perceptor in his spark. Something he would need to somehow get used to.

“Here we are,” Wing said as he turned down a pathway that led to an ornate, pointy-roofed building. Leading up the path to the building entrance were live, growing crystals in all different shades of colors. _This place is so weird_ , he thought.

“What is this place?” Deadlock asked as they entered, his voice echoing in the large open room. There was a high ceiling overhead, smooth metallic floor, and a set of chairs pushed up against the far wall.

“A practice center.” Wing crossed to a set of shelves and retrieved two long batons.

Was Wing gonna beat him down? Confused, and now on edge as Wing approached, Deadlock tensed. “Practice for what?”

Holding out one of the batons, Wing smiled. “Fighting.”

“I fight with guns, not… _sticks_ ,” Deadlock said as he took the offered item and scowled at it.

“Anything can be used as a weapon. We left guns and rifles behind when we left Cybertron, preferring to hone the art of swordplay. With the batons, we practice our skills.” Wing stepped away, holding his baton up in what Deadlock guessed was a start position.

“You want me to come at you with this stupid thing?” Deadlock asked.

“No.” Wing canted his head. “I want you to fight back.”

Deadlock shook his head. “Why? What’s the point?”

“When you beat me, I will arrange for you to see Perceptor.” Wing then came at Deadlock. The baton flew through the air, as Wing gracefully swung it, cracking it across Deadlock’s chest.

It stung, and he stumbled back, but quickly lifted his baton up in time to fend off Wing’s second swing. This mech was relentless, moving in unexpected ways, smacking his baton against Deadlock’s plating over and over. Backing up, while trying to fend off Wing’s attacks, he finally lost his patience when his back hit the wall of the large space, and threw the baton at Wing. It fell to the floor with a soft clatter.

Wing froze, then returned to a normal stance as he looked down at Deadlock’s discarded baton. “Pick it up.”

“No,” Deadlock growled. “This is stupid. I’m not whacking you with that ridiculous bat--”

Wing leapt forward, pinning Deadlock to the wall with his baton, shoving it up against his throat. Golden optics sharply focused on him. “Do you care about him? About Perceptor?”

Struggling against Wing, Deadlock didn’t answer.

“ _Do you_?” Wing repeated, this time in a sharper tone.

“Let go of me, you fragger!” Deadlock yelled as he pushed hard against Wing. Memories of Turmoil’s harsh abuse came bubbling up, sucking away his desire to fight. What did it matter if he cared for Perceptor? He was no good for him.

“Do you _love_ him?” Wing asked, optics searching Deadlock’s face for a true answer to his question.

Love? His spark ached at the question. Different memories flooded his mind: curled up against Perceptor in that large berth, that kiss they shared after he took his collar off, the warmth and affection he thought he'd never feel again after losing Gasket... He felt it all again with Perceptor, except it was more intense this time around.

“Yes!” Deadlock blurted out. He averted his gaze, fingers digging into Wing’s chestplate as he pushed on him. “But it doesn’t matter! Nothing matters!” He looked up again, struggling with all his emotions that were now teeming at the surface. “I’m not good enough for him. I couldn’t even take care of him without fragging it up.”

“You almost died attempting to protect him, did you not?” Wing asked.

Deadlock stopped struggling. “Not exactly.”

Wing’s grip loosened. “You told me you purchased his life to protect him. Is that much true?”

“Yeah,” Deadlock replied.

“Did you do all you could for him in what I suspect were circumstances beyond your control?” Wing asked.

Deeply frowning, Deadlock slowly shook his head. “Don’t you get it? The moment I paid for his life, I ruined any chance of things between me and him having a ‘happy’ ending. I owned him! There is no undoing that!”

“Not all paths are clear cut. Sometimes the long way round still leads to the same place, even if it was the harder path to journey on. I saw a look of desperation to help you and complete adoration on his face in the desert,” Wing replied. He pushed harder on the baton, slightly choking Deadlock. “Now fight for him. _Beat me_. I dare you to be the mech Perceptor thinks you are.”

Something in those words broke through his wall of despair. Deadlock narrowed his optics, and roared as he shoved Wing with his true force, knocking him backwards onto his aft.

The fight was back on. Deadlock focused this time, grabbing his fallen baton just in time to block Wing’s blow. Back on his feet, Wing didn’t hold back. They sparred, struggling for domination.

He fought with all he had, moving with unrestrained fury. Wing was graceful and able to counter Deadlock’s attacks for the most part, but his sheer brutality earned him a few clacks of the baton to Wing’s plating.

Running at Wing, Deadlock lifted the baton over his head, intending to whack him in the head. Wing ducked down, grabbing Deadlock’s middle and tossing him like he was nothing more than a piece of scrap metal. He landed on the hard ground on his back.

“You haven’t beaten me today, but you do have all the power and spark to fight like a true warrior.” Wing bowed to Deadlock, then walked over and offered his hand to help him up. “Never let that fire in your spark leave you.”

Sitting up, he frowned at Wing. “Was that a compliment?”

Wing nodded. "Tomorrow I will show you some moves that will aid your fighting style, and we will spar again."

"And you promise when I beat you, I get to see Perceptor?" Deadlock asked.

"I promise," Wing replied.

Taking the offered hand, Deadlock got to his feet. Okay, so maybe this mech wasn’t so bad… Even if he was really odd.

…

 

"We need to get the matrix back and then get out of this place," Hot Rod said as sipped his energon.

His comrades had taken to sitting together when they had their energon. It was one of the few times Perceptor would leave his room. He hardly ever spoke, though. Instead he listened to them, trying to understand what life here had been like for them. It was almost like they’d been frozen in time. To them there was still a war to fight. Decepticons to stop. They didn’t seem to understand just how far the odds were skewed in the Decepticons’ favor. Short of getting the entire population of the New Crystal City to go with them, there would be no changing the twisted, dark world Cybertron had become under Megatron, even with the matrix.

"To what end?" Tracks asked. "If that were even possible, if we could escape the city, find a ship, get the matrix, then what? Return to a planet where we're enslaved?"

"And staying here, being prisoners is better?" Hot Rod countered.

Tracks gave Perceptor a side long glance, then looked back at Hot Rod. "Maybe."

Perceptor refused take part in the conversation and simply stared at his energon, fingering the edge of the container.

"I agree with Hot Rod," Ratchet grumbled. "Staying here is costing lives back on Cybertron."

"But the eight of us showing up in a ship with a relic we couldn't even open and taking on the entire Decepticon army makes sense?" Wheeljack asked.

"Maybe not all the 'Cons are thrilled with how things are there," Ratchet replied. "After all, that one got Percy off-planet. And for all we know, the matrix needs to be on Cybertron to work properly."

"Where is that 'Con Percy arrived here with anyway?" Blurr asked.

Everyone at the table looked at Perceptor.

Heat flashed over his faceplates and he clenched his jaw. He preferred being invisible to them. The daily pain of missing Deadlock was hard enough, he really didn't want to talk about it.

"Percy, was he the one that harmed you?" Blaster asked, his voice softening as he reached over and put his hand on Perceptor's arm.

Perceptor curled his hand into a ball, resisting the urge to withdraw his arm from Blaster’s grasp. He knew they meant well, that they cared, but it didn’t change what he’d been through. They had only the faintest understanding of what their one beautiful home planet had become.

"Pardon my interruption." Wing stood at the base of stairs, hand gripping the railing. "I would like a moment alone to speak with Perceptor," Wing said, golden optics focusing on him.

 _Thank Primus..._ Perceptor pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Wing smiled at him then gestured for him to ascend the stairs before him. Relieved to escape his comrades’ questions, he quickly made his way up the stairs, hoping Wing was here to tell him how Deadlock was.

Wing led him to a quiet room furnished with sofas and a shelves filled with countless datapads. Perceptor paused a few steps into the room and tilted his head and read a few of marked edges of the datafiles. It appeared to be a collection of various types of fiction.

“Axe has an impressive library. I borrow files from him all the time,” Wing said.

Glancing at Wing, Perceptor nodded. “I’m certainly impressed.”

“And no doubt curious why I’m here,” Wing said, cutting right to the point.

“Do you have word on my friend’s condition?” Perceptor asked, moving to stand in front of Wing.

Despite his smaller size, Wing remained a looming presence, with his bright golden optics and a smile that seemed to shimmer. “He is well. Dai Atlas has had him released into my care.”

“May I see him?” Perceptor asked.

Wing stared at Perceptor for a long moment. “Yes. But, not yet. I need time to arrange things. Dai Atlas is reluctant to allow a Decepticon to interact with an Autobot, which is why he’s been given to me to look after.”

Deflating a little, Perceptor nodded.

“I would like to ask a personal question, if you don’t mind.” Wing’s bright smile softened as he donned a more serious expression.

Perceptor canted his head slightly. “Yes?”

“You didn’t elaborate on your relationship with him when I initially asked. Through Axe, I learned about your enslavement. That this Decepticon in my care _paid_ to own you.” Wing’s optics dimmed. “Yet, you show extraordinary concern for him.”

Frowning, Perceptor averted his gaze to the floor. “Was there a question you wanted to ask? Or did you simply want to point out what you’ve surreptitiously learned?”

Wing reached up, hand grasping the non-scope shoulder, and he ducked down into Perceptor’s line of sight. Forced to look at him, Perceptor lifted his head, meeting Wing’s golden opticked gaze. “It’s not my place to judge. I’m not you or him. Only you two know what is true and resonates within your sparks. My question is: do you still care about him? Even after your time apart?”

Staring into Wing’s face, he felt that same inexplicable comfort this mech offered when they’d first met. Maybe it was earnest nature, or maybe his calming personality... Either way, Perceptor trusted him.   

“I miss him with every ounce of my spark,” Perceptor replied, voice betraying how much it hurt to be parted as it cracked.

Wing’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “As soon as I’m able to make the arrangements, I will take you to see him.”

Perceptor nodded. “Thank you.”

…

 

Leaping around, Deadlock had managed to avoid all but three strikes today. Wing swung and he was getting much better at anticipating and moving out of the way of the flying non-weapon.

"You've improved quite a bit," Wing said as he spun on his heel, swinging his baton outward.

Lifting his baton up, Deadlock blocked the blow, smugly smiling. “Always been a quick learner.”

Wing smiled back with a glint in his golden optics that telegraphed his intentions. Deadlock tensed, ready for anything. So when Wing lowered his baton and walked to the shelves to put it back, he was left standing in the middle of the practice area completely confused.

“That’s it?” Deadlock asked.

After placing the baton in it’s place, Wing turned to look at him. “Yes.”

“You usually beat me up more,” Deadlock replied, quirking a small half-smile.

A funny look flickered over Wing’s face. Deadlock wasn’t sure if it was concern or maybe he was upset? “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Deadlock asked, quick to be defensive.

“Drift, you are unlike anyone I’ve met before,” Wing replied. “You enjoy the struggle and fight. Most don’t.”

“Struggled my whole life. Why stop now?” Deadlock replied with a dark smile.

“Are you ever at peace?” Wing asked as walked over and took the baton from Deadlock’s grasp.

Peace? That was a laughable concept. He’d known pain, loss and anger. Those were what drove him to fight with all he had. “You live a cushy little life here. Let’s just say I haven’t been that lucky.”

“Your spark has never felt calm or fulfilled?” Wing asked, optics dimming with his apparent attempt at empathy.

His spark only ached now. Ached for Perceptor. He grimaced and looked away. When he was sparring with Wing that ache became secondary. Maybe that was why he enjoyed it so much. “No.”

“Not even with Perceptor?” Wing asked, his voice taking on a gentle tone.

Gaze shifting back to Wing, Deadlock deeply frowned as he spoke through clenched dentia. “ _Stop mentioning him_.”

Wing regarded him for a long moment. “Pushing down emotions, holding that all in, is of no benefit. That said, I do understand that you don’t trust me enough to share with.”

“You don’t know me. Why do you keep trying to figure me out?” Deadlock asked, annoyed and amused at the same time by Wing’s persistence.

Deadlock had made himself unknowable by design. Remaining elusive was a skill he’d honed over his whole lifetime. The only mech he’d opened up a small part of himself to was Perceptor. He was the only mech not to look at him with pity. The only one that didn’t judge him on his past actions. The only one he felt safe being his true self around.

“I’m curious and a seeker of understanding by nature, just as you are distrustful and guarded,” Wing replied.

“Whatever,” Deadlock replied.

“I find you _so_ fascinating,” Wing replied with an amused smile.

Frown dissolving into a small smile, Deadlock shook his head. “I think you’re the weirdest mech I’ve ever met.”

…

 

Another restless evening claimed Perceptor. He pressed against the wall, but it wasn’t enough to trick his processor now. After seeing Wing days ago and learning Deadlock was fully repaired, all he could think about was seeing him. He wondered how he was faring, and curious about whether he missed Perceptor at all.

With a huff of air from his intakes, he conceded defeat and rolled off his berth. He quietly walked out to the balcony in the living area, palming the release for the glass door. It slid open and he stepped outside, feeling the light wind wash over his plating.

“You recharge about as much as he does.”

Startled, Perceptor whirled around as his optics flared, searching the darkness for who’d spoken. “Who’s there?”

Wing pushed away from the wall, his plating almost glowing in the dark as he stepped out from the building shadow, allowing the city lights to reflect off his gleaming white frame.

“Wing,” Perceptor said, trying to calm down. “You frightened me.”

“I apologize,” Wing replied.

“It’s the middle of the night. Why are you here?” Perceptor asked.

Stepping closer, Wing tentatively touched Perceptor’s arm before sliding his fingers down to take hold of his hand. “Would you like to visit my home?”

Confused by the almost intimate gesture and the invitation, Perceptor frowned. “Your home?”

“Wouldn’t you like to see Drift?” Wing asked, optics shining brightly in the darkness as he peered up at Perceptor.

Deadlock was going by ‘Drift’? Something about revelation that made Perceptor’s spark flutter. Was he using that name because Perceptor had said he liked it? “Yes. I would, but as I pointed out it’s middle of the night.”

Wing wrapped an arm around Perceptor and hugged himself close. “And like I said, he recharges about as much as you do.”

“What are you–” Perceptor cut his question short when Wing unfolded his wings. “We’re going to fly there?”

Laughing, Wing slid both arms around Perceptor’s middle. “It’s a short flight away, but I recommend you hold on tight.”

“You do know there is a door upstairs,” Perceptor replied as he raised an optic ridge.

“This is more fun, don’t you think? Besides, I don’t want to wake anyone by trudging through the house.” Wing’s shoulder turbines whirred to life, and Perceptor scrambled to cling to him, not entirely comfortable with the idea of being lifted off the ground.

“Is this a violation? I thought Autobots and Decepticons weren’t allowed to interact here?” Perceptor asked, partly wondering if Wing was disobeying orders, but also stalling to give himself another moment or two to collect himself before they took off.

“As of tomorrow at 0800, you’re to be transferred into my custody. I figured why not come and get you a little early?” Wing flashed a bright smile. “Here we go!” He took to the air with a firm hold of Perceptor, leaving the balcony behind.

Perceptor’s legs flailed as the solid surface beneath them pulled away and he dug his fingers into Wing’s upper body, clinging to him.

“Try not to kick!” Wing said, their path wavering.

Stiffening, Perceptor’s spark pounded hard in his chest. His alt mode was a microscope, not a vehicle of any kind. Moving quickly over the ground could be disorienting enough, but up in the air without any sort of protective barrier? It was reeking havoc with his nerves and internal gyroscopes at the same time.

“I won’t drop you,” Wing assured as he turned to fly sideways.

Wincing, Perceptor buried his face in the side of Wing’s helm. “I do trust you, but that doesn’t make this a pleasant experience.”

Wing lightly laughed. “I can see why he’s so taken with you. Almost there.”

Perceptor wondered what Wing meant, but he didn’t dare ask. In light of his abysmal track record of not a single mech looking twice at him, let alone being ‘taken’ with him, he found the comment odd. Still, there was only one mech his spark wanted to be with, and as Wing touched down to the ground again, he felt his chest surge with anticipation of finally being reunited with Deadlock.

Prying his fingers off Wing’s plating, Perceptor stumbled as he tried to step back.

Wing grabbed his arms, helping to steady him. “Easy there, give yourself a moment to reorient.”

Nodding, Perceptor looked around the small yard. It was very nicely kept, crystals grew along the edges of the small patch of property. They’d landed on the walkway that led to Wing’s home, and Perceptor’s gaze soon focused on the door. “He’s inside?”

“Yes,” Wing replied. “Come.” Letting go, he gestured for Perceptor to follow.

Stepping inside the door, Perceptor was impressed with the simple, yet beautiful home Wing kept. A large greatsword lay across the mantle in the center back wall of the living room. Wing strode down the nearby hallway, and Perceptor followed. At the end was a closed door, which Wing knocked loudly on.

“What?” Deadlock’s terse, yet familiar sounding reply made Perceptor smile a little.

“You have a visitor,” Wing replied.

The door whooshed open, but no mech greeted them, only darkness.

Wing gestured for Perceptor to enter. There had been a time when darkness filled him with trepidation and fear. When it held nothing but pain and loss. He realized at that moment that having his former self stripped of everything had helped him discover who he was at his core, and who he wanted to be. Deadlock’s words about being ‘stronger than you realize’ echoed in his processor as he boldly stepped across the threshold into the inky blackness, without an ounce of that fear left. He'd go anywhere as long he could be with Deadlock.

“Tell whoever it is to frag off,” Deadlock grumbled.

“Considering the rather intense flight I just took clinging to your host, I’d rather not go back so soon,” Perceptor replied in the direction of the voice.

Blue optics flared in the darkness. “Perceptor?”

Perceptor was momentarily confused by the blue glow until he remembered Deadlock's red optics had been shattered by Turmoil during the assault. “Your optics…”

“Oh, yeah.” He saw the shadows of fingers over them. “They gave me these stupid blue ones.”

The lighting in the room cycled on at a low level, and Perceptor was somewhat surprised by how different Deadlock looked. The layers of mods had been stripped from his frame and replaced with shiny white plating that resembled the residents of the New Crystal City. He'd been quite attractive before, but now he looked... beautiful.

“I know. I look different,” Deadlock replied.

The door to the room suddenly slid shut. Perceptor gave the closed entry a momentary look, then glanced back at Deadlock. Or was this truly Drift, now? New body, new name?

Pushing off his berth, Deadlock stood just out of his arm's length. “You hate it? What they did to me?”

Taking a moment to look him over, Perceptor shook his head. “Not at all.”

“You look different, too,” Deadlock said, his new blue optics scanning over Perceptor’s updated frame. “You have your scope back, though. That’s good, right?”

Rolling the shoulder with it, he allowed the mounts to push it back. “Yes, I’m pleased to have it back and I did have them update and upgrade my armor when they repaired me.”

Deadlock nodded, his gaze continuing to wander over Perceptor’s frame.

“Wing called you ‘Drift’. Is that the name you prefer now?” Perceptor asked.

“It’s my given name.” Deadlock frowned as he averted his gaze, looking down at the floor. “Figured if I was getting another chance, I should do it right. Go back to using it. Stop running from what I was.”

Perceptor dimmed his optics. “I think it’s a lovely name.”

Meeting Perceptor’s gaze, Drift dimmed his optics, too. “Glad you like it.” An unreadable expression flickered over his face as he seemed to struggle to say something.

Perceptor's spark ached a little in his chest with worry. What if it had been too long? What if Deadlock--Drift no longer had an emotional attachment to him? Had he trapped himself in a one-sided relationship again?

“I’m sorry,” Drift suddenly blurted. “I’m sorry about everything. About locking you away, about letting Turmoil hurt you. I should have been there to protect you and I should have done so much more for you.” He grimaced as he dropped his gaze to the floor, again. “Slaggit, I can’t even apologize, right.”

Perceptor closed the space between them, fingers gently lifting Drift’s bowed helm up by his chin, forcing him look up. “You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. You did protect me. You took care of me. You helped me find strength I didn’t know I had.”

“You almost died, _twice_ because of me,” Drift replied as he frowned.

“I would most certainly have died long ago if not for your intervention.” Perceptor moved his hand and gently ran the backs of his fingers over Drift's cheek plate, while gazing into his beautiful blue optics. He'd held back confessing his feelings before, afraid of toppling over what felt like a delicate balance between them. But standing here now he knew that his feelings for Drift were in fact very real and not some survival mechanism. Maybe it started off as something to fill the void and combat the pain, but he had no doubt now that it had morphed into much more, and he wanted to tell him how he felt. “Without you, I would never have known what it feels like to love.”

Drift’s optics brightened with his apparent surprise. "You… _love_ me?”

“With every pulse of my spark. I am so very much in love with you,” Perceptor replied.

Drift's optics glossed over with tears he fought to hold back. "I don't deserve you. I'm a selfish aft. You deserve someone better."

"There is no one else that stirs my spark." Perceptor pressed their forehelms together. "And _you_ deserve better than all the abuse you've endured. You said this is your second chance. It's mine, too. Perhaps we can... Start again together? Protect one another?"

"Perceptor..." Drift whispered as he stared at him with a look of awe. Tipping his head up, he brushed their lips together, then initiated a heated, soft-mouthed kiss.

Returning the kiss, Perceptor was overwhelmed with the intensity of emotions roiling inside him. Primus help him, he loved this mech so much, words barely conveyed a fraction of the overwhelming affection and desire it filled him with.

Pulling back from the kiss, Drift lifted his hands up, fingers splaying over Perceptor’s chest plate. "I suck slag when it comes to saying what I feel. But..." He dimmed his optics. "I hope you know that I do--” He paused, optics dimming.”-- _love_ you."

Words didn’t need to be eloquent to be powerful. In an instant all the walls between them came crashing down.

With a small smile, Perceptor leaned forward and sealed their confessions of love with another kiss. What started as lip only, quickly shifted into something much more passionate. Their glossae met between their heated, linked mouths as Drift pressed his new frame closer.

Drift broke the long kiss with a soft gasp. He slowly slid his hands down over Perceptor's frame, then took hold of his hand, stepping backwards toward the berth in the room.

Arousal and affection both flickered through Perceptor as he was pulled along. He was surprised when Drift sat down and laid back on the berth. Unsure if he was misreading the body language of the vulnerable position he had put himself in, Perceptor stood beside the berth, unmoving.

“I’m gonna be offended if you don’t join me,” Drift said, a joking tone in his voice, but it was clearly a cover for his own insecurity.

Perceptor sat down on the edge of the berth, and began to trail his fingers over Drift’s new chestplate. “I’m usually the one on the bottom,” he commented.

“I know.” Drift took Perceptor’s wandering hand, and laced their fingers together. “But I trust you. More than anyone.”

Moved by the meaning behind Drift’s gesture of vulnerability, he felt his spark flutter in his chest. “Drift… I don’t know what to say,” Perceptor replied.

“Don’t say anything,” Drift said with a half-smile. “Just get over here.”

Smiling, Perceptor did just that. He crawled overtop of of him, and Drift parted his legs, flanking his hips and arching up, to grind their interface covers against each other. Heat instantly rippled over Perceptor’s entire frame, but quickly pooled over his faceplates. He’d never interfaced this way before and decided he should probably share that little known fact.

“I should tell you, I’ve never been the one to, um, be on top,” Perceptor said, hoping his confession wouldn’t kill the moment.

Drift warmly smiled. “I figured. But, I want this with you.”

“Well, I apologize in advance--”

“Hey, didn’t I tell you to stop saying you’re sorry?” Drift interrupted.

Dimming his mismatched optics, Perceptor nodded and smiled.  

Running his hands over Perceptor’s sides, Drift grinned. Trailing his lips over the slope of Drift’s neck, Perceptor stiffened when he felt impatient fingers push between their bodies and snap his interface cover open.

He lifted his head up and locked gazes with Drift, while shifting his hips to give him better access. “In a hurry?”

“Just missed you,” Drift replied as his fingers curled around Perceptor’s spike and squeezed.

Perceptor’s fingers dug into the berth on either side of Drift as he shivered. Even though Drift offered to be on the receiving end, he was still exerting his need for control. Understanding that the past informed the present no matter how much either one wished that might not be the case, he still wanted Drift to know that he’d always be safe with him. That there was no need to fear letting that tight control go.

Pressing his lips to Drift’s audio, Perceptor whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know,” Drift whispered back.

Perceptor rested his weight on one elbow to prop himself up as he let his other hand glide down over smooth white plating. He slipped his hand between dark-colored thighs, and slid the interface cover open, sinking his fingers into the inviting heat of Drift’s valve.

Drift gasped and let go of his spike. New blue optics darkened and flickered as Perceptor employed what he’d learned from him, fingers curling and massaging the lining. Despite the rebuilt frame Drift was in, he could feel the old scarring along the mesh walls. There were small healed over areas that were smoothed and thicker to the touch. Nuzzling the side of Drift’s helm, Perceptor mentally vowed to never let anyone hurt him again so long as his spark continued to pulse.  

“Perceptor,” Drift moaned his name as his fingers dug into his sides. “Please…”

Smiling at the needy sound of Drift’s request, Perceptor settled his full weight over top of him again, and traded his fingers for his spike. Arching his body, he pushed slowly into Drift’s slicked, heated valve. Lifting his legs up, Drift hooked them over his hips, which gave him fuller access as he sank his spike to the hilt inside him.

The mesh walls quivering around his spike, drew a soft gasp from his lips. “Amazing,” Perceptor breathed.

Drift’s dark optics focused on him and he grinned.

Being his first time interfacing this particular way, Perceptor began by rolling his hips at a languid pace, getting a feel for the mechanics of his differing role.

“Not gonna break me,” Drift said, nuzzling Perceptor’s cheek.

“I lack your expertise,” Perceptor shyly replied.

“Not too difficult, just do what I usually do,” Drift replied as his fingers curled into Perceptor’s plating.

Remembering the alternating paces and types of thrusts Drift had used on him, he dimmed his optics, trying to determine what might work best, but in the end decided he should just go what felt best. Rocking his hips faster, he sank deep into Drift, which felt like liquid heat enveloping his spike with each thrust. He couldn’t help but moan in response to the pleasure that curled around inside his interface array.

His dimmed optics brightened when he heard Drift whimper, though. Was he hurting him? He’d never heard him make any sounds when they’d interfaced before, other than the occasional grunt when he overloaded.

Lifting his head, he gazed into Drift’s face. Lips parted, optics dark and dimmed, Drift was softly whimpering with each thrust. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

Increasing his pace, he was soon lost in his heady desire, pushing toward release. His fingers tightened their grasp around Drift’s middle, and he pressed his face into the side of Drift’s helm and groaned, overwhelmed with how good he felt.

Suddenly, Drift stiffened beneath him, clinging to him as he shuddered and then rolled his head back, crying out with his apparent overload. His valve grasped desperately at Perceptor’s spike, and it only took a few more thrusts into that tight heat to reach his own climax. He let out a long, whimpering moan, while arching his body fully and pressing deep, filling that lovely spasming valve with hot cycled mech fluid. The intensity of his overload left his entire frame buzzing with pleasure.

Sinking down over Drift, Perceptor offlined his optics, swimming in a euphoric haze. Drift’s body lost all tension, and his legs slid off Perceptor’s hips as he sighed air from his intakes.

As his processor started to clear, he was struck with just how much trust Drift had placed in him. Relighting his optics, he gazed at Drift’s face in profile with fondness pulsing in his spark.

Drift turned his head slightly, quirking a half-smile. “If that’s you on a first try, you might end up blowing my processor if you get much better at it.”

Perceptor chuckled at the compliment and craned his neck to kiss Drift’s cheek. “Just doing what you do,” he replied with a lightness in his voice.

Drift laughed a little in reply.

Perceptor shifted his hips, disengaging from Drift and then moving to lie against his side, resting his head against his chest plate. Arm stretched over pretty white plating, Perceptor hugged himself to Drift. In this position, he could hear and feel the pulse of Drift’s spark, detecting it lightly fluttering now and again.

A thick, but comfortable silence hung heavily in the air. Drift wrapped one arm around Perceptor’s back in a half hug, while idly tracing circles over the dial on his forearm.

If there had been any doubts before Wing brought him here, they were long gone now. The journey to this point had twisted, winding around in ways Perceptor never anticipated, but ended right where he knew they should be: in one another’s embrace.

“As awesome as this is, this isn’t what I wanted for you,” Drift said, breaking the long the silence.

Flexing his fingers against Drift’s plating, Perceptor frowned. “Meaning?”

“I wanted to set you free, not get us both locked in a fancy cell,” Drift replied in a sullen tone.

Perceptor shifted to his front, and propped himself up on an elbow as he looked down at Drift. “Then we'll fight.”

“An entire city of deserters obsessed with keeping up appearances?” Drift asked as he raised an optic ridge.

“Yes,” Perceptor replied.

“How? I’ve got no weapons,” Drift looked at Perceptor’s shoulder mount, then reached up and poked at it. “Unless that’s a giant cannon capable of blowing the roof off this place or something, we're trapped here.”

“Hardly," Perceptor replied, smiling. "Guns aren’t the only weapons available to us,” Perceptor replied.

Drift shot him a dubious look.

"Knowledge and words. I believe we could convince them not only to let us go, but help us fight for Cybertron," Perceptor replied.

Drift looked entirely unconvinced of Perceptor's proposed idea. "I wish I had your optimism."

"A mech once told me I was stronger than I realized." Perceptor half-smiled. "I've come to believe that to be true."

"I know that mech. He's kind of an idiot, though," Drift replied with a small frown. "Tends to mess up a lot, even when he doesn't mean to."

"He's not an idiot. He might be rough around the edges but he has his spark in the right place, and I happen to be in love with him," Perceptor leaned down, stealing a kiss.

"I should kick his aft," Drift said, half-smiling. Heaving a resigned sigh, He reached up and ran  his fingers down Perceptor's cheek. "How did I get so lucky?"

"As a scientist, I don't subscribe to the notion of luck or fate, but I can't help but wonder if our lives were meant to be entwined," Perceptor replied. "Perhaps in all the possible alternate dimensions we might have met one way or another."

Drift looked confused as he slowly nodded his head at Perceptor. "I don't know about all that, but I do know that I love you."

Heat flashed over Perceptor's faceplates, embarrassed he'd babbled on but enjoying hearing those words again.

"And you have the prettiest voice." Drift ran his thumb over Perceptor's lower lip. "Alright, so you wanna fight, get out of this crazy city and make these afts face what they left behind?"

Perceptor nodded. "Yes, I do."

Drift gazed into his optics. "Then we'll fight. _Together_."

" _Together_ ," Perceptor replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this fic isn't meant to resolve the universe they are in, but I did have a sequel fic in mind to possibly resolve this AU. Not sure when I might get to that, though. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this and sticking with me through the last year and half it took me to write this. I appreciate all the encouragement and comments.


End file.
